


~he held his breath until his cheeks turned blue~

by LostWendy1



Category: Strange the Dreamer Series - Laini Taylor
Genre: Alternate Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Slavery, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Character Death, Science in lieu of Emotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 07:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWendy1/pseuds/LostWendy1
Summary: An alternate ending to Muse of Nightmares based on a theory I developed while reading the book that features a little more involvement on Thyon’s behalf.(The “implied/referenced” tags above just mean things from the books are mentioned in the fic—nothing worse than what’s already canon.)~*~But that was the problem with making wishes. Thyon had spent as much energy on wanting to be his own story as he did his own spirit for azoth that he forgot the one rule when it came to wishes. It was understandable that he’d forget this rule, after all. He had left all of Strange’s books back in Zosma, and, with everything going on, with his mind otherwise diverted, he had simply forgot. Thyon would get his wish, there was no doubt about that. He had made a wish, and the universe had listened. But the rules still held regardless.Thyon Nero forgot to be specific.





	~he held his breath until his cheeks turned blue~

**Author's Note:**

> ***This fic is dedicated to fellow AO3 author, bacondestiny. :D Friend, editor, all-around Laini Taylor encyclopedia, this fic could not have been written without her. <3
> 
>  
> 
> ***TRIGGER WARNING:  
> 1\. Rape: Only referred to as much as it's referred to in the original text. Nothing is shown on the page, but the activities of the gods are also not glossed over either.  
> 2\. Self-harm: It is heavily hinted in Muse of Nightmares that Thyon self-harms, and that is discussed in a paragraph towards the very end of the fic. 
> 
> ***Strange the Dreamer and Muse of Nightmares belong to Laini Taylor and publisher Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. With the exception of a few original characters, I claim nothing and am making no money off this fic. 
> 
> ***This fic is an alternate ending to MoN, but I've also kept it as close to the original ending as possible. As such, there are several scenes where much of the dialogue has been lifted straight from the book. I rewrote the dialogue tags and descriptions so I wasn't straight up plagiarizing Laini Taylor, but part of my intention in writing this fic was to show just how much of my theory could have happened and still relatively kept the same plot. If you have any questions about a certain line of dialogue, please feel free to ask, and I'll let you know if it's from the book or if I altered it in any way. 
> 
> ***All other notes are at the end of the fic as they are slightly spoilery.

 

~he held his breath until his cheeks turned blue~

*

_Names may be lost or forgotten. No one knew that better than Lazlo Strange. He’d had another name first, but it had died like a song with no one left to sing it._

_~ &~ _

_Thyon’s nickname, “the golden godson,” was with him from his christening, and perhaps it ordained his path. Names have power, and he was, from infancy, associated with gold._

_—Strange the Dreamer_

*

 

 

“Huh.”

The word was said quietly, flatly, utterly unnoticed and unheard except by the Tizerkane warrior at the back of the group. Such a small word, more of a syllable really. A simple sound effect, an unintelligible noise more encompassing of the speaker’s feelings in that particular moment of time than all the books in all the world’s libraries could ever hope to explain.

“Huh” could mean many things given the context of the situation. It might be used, for instance, upon noticing the weather. “ _Huh! Looks like rain_.” It was sometimes used in despair: “ _Huh. My umbrella’s broken._ ” More often than not, it can be found as a request for elaboration, whether by the hard of hearing or incredulous listener. _“Honey, where’s my other umbrella?” “Other umbrella? Huh?"_

This noise, however, was attached to neither exclamation nor interrogation. Just a simple sound to express the very complicated thoughts and emotions currently whirling around the speaker’s mind. No other sound in the world, no other syllable, can express the pure confusion and chaos that threatens to overwhelm one when confronted with an incontrovertible fact so undeniable that everything they know to be true is suddenly brought into question.

And considering that the week began with everyone discovering that Lazlo was the son of a god, considering that the small group of fighters was now standing on a blue mesarthium ship, considering that they arrived at said ship through a rift in the sky that led to another dimension where they sat docked amidst a roiling blood-red sea. . .

Well, when it came down to it, “huh” was the only thing one could possibly utter when confronted by something that made everything else prior look almost normal.

 

***

 

Kora stood patiently by the corner of Skathis’ desk while he finished adding another line to his ledger. Another line, another child. That was what he had summoned her there for, why he always summoned her there. That, and for revealing any information she learned from her spying across the length and breadth of Zeru.

Testing the children aboard the citadel and spying for Skathis for so many years had eventually numbed Kora to the atrocities committed in the name of being gods. Despite the tiny kernel of hope she retained that her sister was still out there and still might find her all these years later, she had long since resigned herself to a life of doing Skathis’ bidding. And despite that tiny piece of hope, another part of her—a traitorous part, her heart often whispered—wished and hoped that her sister never came. Because if Skathis were to discover she had sent that diadem to Nova, if Skathis were to once more run into her sister, they would both meet their downfalls. And it would all be Kora’s fault.

And so Kora’s mind and heart railed against each other, both wishing and not wishing to see her sister again.

One part of Kora’s mind, however, remained focused on something— _someone_ —else. It was this for which Skathis had summoned her, this moment that would change the course of their lives forever, though neither of them knew it at the time.

Finally, when he had finished working in his ledger, Skathis tossed his quill down and looked up at Kora with a grin. Skathis has two kinds of smiles: an angry smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, which meant the receiver was in trouble, and a happy smile, which promised even more trouble.

This was a happy smile.

A writhing mass of dread settled in Kora’s stomach. Had she forgotten to pass along some important piece of information? Had Isagol gone through her room and found something, anything, to once again set her against the wrath of their leader? It wasn’t hard to miss how jealous Isagol could get sometimes over how much Skathis relied on her powers, and she’d certainly done it before. A sudden chill swept over Kora, and her hand found its way to the collar around her neck. Could she possibly have missed a smith child?

Skathis merely rested his elbows on top of the desk and steepled his fingers. “You came back from Zosma recently. Tell me about it.”

Kora recited, though somewhat hesitantly, all that she saw from her travels through Zosma. In the midst of a big war against its neighboring country on the far side, the kingdom was bleeding gold in a desperate bid to tempt more soldiers to its own side in the chaotic butchering of the blood-soaked battlefields. But Kora had perched on the windowsills of the capital’s greatest buildings and slipped through the smallest of spaces to infiltrate the queen’s council chambers, and had heard the truth of it from the mouths of the leaders themselves. If their numbers continued to dwindle, if their gold continued to run out, they would lose and they would lose fast. Never mind that the people of their country were losing as well, their fields trampled under regulation heels, their livestock eaten on roasting spits, their own homes commandeered for purposes of battle strategy. They did not live in the country, these great men and women of Zosma, and so all their concern remained focused on numbers: their troops and their wealth and their soon-to-be lack thereof.

But Skathis was still offering her that troublesome grin. He already knew this information. It had all been some sort of test. But had she passed?

Kora’s hand once again played with the edge of the collar around her neck as Skathis sat back in his chair. “Despite their lack of funds,” he stated, “they’re desperate. Have you tested any of the children lately?”

Sometimes Kora wondered at her true purpose when Skathis seemed to know more about what was going on in the ship than even she did at times. Hadn’t he just finished selling off the last group of children? No one had manifested since, and anyway, they both knew she hadn’t had the time to visit the nursery before he sent her off on this errand to Zosma. So Kora answered, confused yet cautious, “No, sir. I have not.”

Skathis reached down for something in his desk as he began to chuckle. “I think we both know that’s not true.” He looked up at her then, and his smile grew even wider as he extended his arm out toward her and dropped several objects on the desk between them. Contrary to their diminutive size, they _thunk_ -ed loudly.

The dread she had felt before was nothing compared to the icy numbness that now swept through her entire body. She had been _so_ careful in keeping those items hidden from view.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Skathis said in a low voice. “I’m sure you see how fortuitous this is for us. They need gold. We have someone who can provide it for them.”

Kora couldn’t keep her eyes off the three shiny objects on the desk, couldn’t help but gape as she dared to stutter, “B-but I thought. . .” She trailed off, inwardly cursing her failure to maintain her composure as tears began to prick her eyes.

“No,” Skathis said, leaning forward in his chair. “Please continue.”

Kora felt like a child herself again in that instant, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Nova as their stepmother Skoyë scolded them once again for some minor offense. But Nova was not there now to lend her the strength which with to face this current predicament. She felt frozen in place, unable to tear her eyes away from the items on the desk and how their golden sheen glinted in the sunlight coming from the window set in the wall just behind the blue god.

She took several deep breaths. “I just thought,” she said finally, her voice a mere whisper creeping from her lips, “that I could keep him. I thought you said—”

Skathis laughed and stood up, signaling this meeting—this blitz attack, more like—was at an end. “You can keep those,” he said, gesturing once again to his desk. “I never said you could keep anything else.”

And in that moment Kora realized that Skathis was right. He had never said anything otherwise about her situation. He had just never said _anything_. She should have realized that a silent Skathis was much more dangerous than any smiling version of the god she’d ever met.

He raised his eyebrows, beginning to grow impatient, and looked at his desk again. Kora grabbed the small but heavy items and ran from the room, now silently cursing both Skathis and Isagol, who she was now sure had ransacked her room. With her hands full, she couldn’t even wipe her eyes as Skathis’ laughter followed her down the hall.

“Tell Rani thank you for letting me borrow his toys!” He called after her, and Kora cursed him again for letting that name pass his lips, for knowing how predictable she’d be. For she was, of course, headed straight for the nursery with the baby rattles they had found in her room, the nursery where her infant son lay in a mesarthium cradle—if he hadn’t already turned that too into gold.

 

***

 

The young woman lay slumped over the table, one arm hanging limp at her side, and it put Thyon in mind of all the times he had fallen asleep at his work table in the Chrysopoesium. A stark contrast to how the young girls had talked about Nova from their earlier encounter inside the citadel. Thyon had to take their word for it. It hadn’t been a long conversation given Sarai’s presence nearby, though she probably hadn’t heard them at all. The girl had spent the majority of their time in the silk sleigh staring forward, as if her thoughts alone could propel them even faster to Strange’s side.

Now, they all stood in the center archway of the arcade, staring at this supposedly all-powerful being asleep in a chair. It would’ve been pathetic, a waste of a trip even, if it hadn’t been for the giant white bird standing guard, holding them back from terrifying scene just beyond the sleeping figure.

Tzara’s bow was raised. She and the little girl were all for killing Nova, but that wouldn’t solve the main problem they had come for: rescuing Strange. Thyon had no helpful suggestions; this was beyond his purview. He had come to help because Strange would have done the same for him, because—he was learning—it was the right thing to do. But how much did  _knowing_ it was the right thing to do count for if there was nothing one c _ould_ do?

Thyon stood at the back of the group, not for the first time that week feeling useless and out of place. He sighed and leaned against the curve of the arched column. In the end, only Sarai spoke up.

“Maybe I can do something.”

“What can y _ou_ do?” The little girl—Minya, Thyon vaguely recalled—asked scornfully. She stood with her arms crossed, feet planted firmly apart, and Thyon recognized the steely cast of her eyes, the looks on both of their faces. Minya was his father all over again ( _"I am well aware of the inadequacy of your achievement,"_ the older man’s voice rang in his head) and Sarai a version of himself. Desperate. Trying to do the right thing— _anything_ —to make it better.

“She’s asleep,” said Sarai. “I. . . I could go into her dreams.” (“ _I’m trying, Father,”_ he had said _._ )

“You can’t save everyone, Sarai. You know that, don’t you?” _The inadequacy of your achievements._

“I know,” she said. “But we can try. And. . . maybe that’s how we save ourselves.” _I’m trying._

They argued back and forth for a bit, and Thyon fully expected the young girl to win, for Sarai to give in and Tzara’s bow to snap. It was a matter of statistics, really. Someone, one of them, would die before the night was out. A small part of Thyon admired Sarai, though, for at least offering another option. If you didn’t examine a problem from all angles, take any and all variables into account, one’s hypothesis—and ultimately, one’s experiment—was compromised. The obvious solution would be to kill Nova; it took a lot more strength to suggest otherwise, and Thyon was starting to see why Strange had picked her.

“All right,” Minya said.

Sarai’s mouth gaped open slightly, and by the looks of the other kids’ faces, giving in was not something Minya did often, if at all. Sarai eventually crept forward, and the group held their collective breath as they watched the great white bird watching Sarai.

Thyon adjusted his stance as he continued to lean against the large column, and he too watched as another part of this great story unfolded without his help.

 

***

 

“You can’t do this without my help, you’ve alluded to that quite a few times. What I can’t figure out—” and here the queen, sitting straight-backed, ring-laden fingers tapping repetitively against the hard ivory arm of her throne, peered condescendingly down at the figure before her—“is _what_ exactly I am helping with.” The older woman sighed and pulled a small lavender satchel tucked away by her side onto her lap, out of which she pulled a matching handkerchief. She carefully took off her glasses and began to clean them with the square piece of fabric.

The man who stood before her was the only other person in the room, all other servants and courtiers having been ordered out when he arrived. He was younger than the queen, though by no means a young man, and a few strands of gray were already peeking through the light brown hair just above his ears. Any other person might have trembled at the sharpness of the queen’s voice, and a few brave souls even likened it to the sound of a nails being dragged across a chalkboard, though they all denied it later. But not this man. He held his arms comfortably behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart—a soldier’s relaxed stance though he himself had never served in the wars that plagued their country. He held his audience with the queen in the more modest of the two throne rooms, this chamber reserved for smaller meetings and private conversations. And since nobody but the queen initiated conversation, the man waited patiently.

Finally, when her glasses were clean to her satisfaction, she placed them back on her face and put the handkerchief back in its bag, tucking the items away by her side once more. She sighed again. “I won’t deny that this . . . enterprise of yours sounds very rewarding but, as you so succinctly put it, we need gold now, and I don’t know that a long-term project such as this sounds will be helpful to any of us in the meantime.” She raised her eyebrows over the top of her spectacles. “So? Convince me. Explain to me just how you plan on getting this gold and why I should bother with something that will theoretically take several years when we need results now.”

The Duke of Vaal smiled.

 

***

 

The group watched as Sarai slowly approached the sleeping Nova, muttering softly to the large white bird standing guard as she did so. Wraith did not so much as move a single feather on her body, but still Sarai seemed to hesitate as she held her arm outstretched before her, eventually letting her fingers come to rest against Nova’s light blue neck.

Though Sarai was facing away from the group, they could all tell the moment she entered Nova’s dream, her shoulders drooping slightly, her body now relaxed despite the tension in the air. After a few moments of silence, one of the blue girls—Ruby or Sparrow, Thyon couldn’t see—spoke. “Should. . . should we do something?”

Tzara kept her bow at the ready but relaxed enough to glance over at the children. “What do you normally do?”

The boy, Feral, shrugged, staring ahead at the spectacle with a slightly dazed expression. “Nothing. It’s better not to disturb her. And anyway, I’ve never seen her do this during the day. She always does it at night. Though it’s never just herself.”

One of the girls nodded, her curly hair bouncing against her neck. “Usually there’s moths.”

Thyon frowned. He wasn’t sure how moths had anything to do with Sarai’s power until it occurred to him that maybe it had something to do with why Strange’s room had been infested with them when he first confronted him about the mesarthium shard. When it was suddenly revealed that Strange could manipulate the mesarthium because he himself was related to the town’s so-called gods, Thyon couldn’t help but continue to wonder how that strange metal factored into these other children’s abilities, especially since it seemed that Strange was the only one with that specific power. The one girl, for instance, could conjure fire and had done so just before their entrance into the citadel. For all he knew, Sarai’s power was in fact the ability control moths, though perhaps he wouldn’t mention his subsequent pelting of said insects if he wanted to question her about her powers later. Of course, that didn’t explain how she was also able to enter someone’s dreams but if the mesarthium—

“What is she doing?” Calixte’s wondering voice jarred him out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the scene at hand.

Though Sarai’s fingers never left their place against Nova’s neck, she had shifted in her stance and was now facing the large white bird, murmuring something to it. By the looks on everyone else’s faces, they couldn’t understand what she was saying either, nor did anyone understand why she was suddenly tapping her chest.

They got their answer soon enough. Before the group even had time to think about stopping the bird, Wraith shot up into the air, her large wings unfurling with a gust of wind, and dove straight at Sarai. Everyone gasped, including Thyon—this had not factored high in how he saw that day’s events unfolding. Next to him, Ruza started forward with his hreshtek and Tzara brought her bow up again while the others could only grasp at each other in grief and terror.

But Wraith wasn’t attacking Sarai. Instead, as if the universe had decided they hadn’t experienced enough shocks that day, they watched as the bird dove straight _into_ Sarai’s chest. Sarai’s head snapped back, her back arching as her body absorbed the entire bird, feathers and all. As soon as the bird had fully disappeared, Sarai’s body relaxed once more, though Thyon noted that her feet were no longer touching the ground.

“That can’t be good,” someone breathed.

Thyon frowned and hoped Sarai knew what she was doing.

 

***

 

Kora tried to avoid Letha on the best of days but whenever the goddess stalked the corridors of the citadel, her eyes sharp and clear and looking for trouble, Kora hid in her room until the danger was past. Letha wasn’t like the other gods. While she certainly laughed and spoke and even looked like them, she lived in a world of her own making. She often reminded Kora of a painting whose owner hadn’t quite hung the frame correctly. At first glance, everything seemed fine, but the more you looked at it, the more you realized it was slightly. . . off-balance.

Skathis had made a big deal about allowing Isagol, Vanth, and Ikirok to join his crew. Only the best and most powerful, those whose goals aligned closely with his, could ever hope to work alongside him. Once together, they celebrated their new partnership every night for a week. But that was before Letha. She didn’t get a celebration. One night, it was just the five of them; the next morning there were six.

Kora never asked where Skathis had found her.

One might assume the presence of two strong females would bring chaos and strife aboard the ship but she and Isagol became immediate best friends. Even their powers played well with each other. Letha’s power resided in eating memories, which Skathis made use of whenever they were done with whichever man they were playing with at the time, whatever woman had fulfilled her purpose and given them another child to sell. One look, one blink of her eyes, and the memories were gone. If Letha was uninterested or annoyed or even full, it was over quickly. But if Letha liked you, or was hungry. . . Letha liked to draw out the process of erasing someone’s memories. She liked the satisfaction that came from the literal use of the word— _eating_ —and Isagol, not one to miss out on a new game, would manipulate the latest victim into wanting their memories taken, begging and pleading for Letha to lovingly place her hands on the sides of their face, bending close until lips were on lips, and then—Gone.

Kora had only witnessed the act a few times but that was more than enough for her. It almost looked like Letha were drinking the person’s soul, consuming the parts of their very essence that needed to be erased if they wanted to live. Her display of power was just another perversion of the act of love, another violation against one’s being, as if the gods hadn’t done enough of that already.

Kora could always tell when another man or woman had been sent back to the town because Letha wouldn’t so much as walk through the halls as float through them, her movements slow and dreamlike. The most obvious clue that she’d just eaten, though, was her eyes. They took on a cloudy appearance, milky white as if blind, as if she were so full of someone else’s thoughts and dreams that they filled her to the brim, threatening to spill over her cheeks like smoky tears.

When she hadn’t eaten, her eyes would look like anyone else’s, brown and clear, but with an underlying emotion that set Kora on edge anytime the woman looked at her. Not so much angry as unsatisfied. Predatory.

Kora had been at the receiving end of that hungry stare more times that she could count and it didn’t make it any less terrifying. Especially when she and Isagol teamed up. A bored goddess was something to watch out for on a normal day. The two of them together would have had Kora crouched trembling in the corner of her room if she didn’t think that would send them into a rapture, goading them into tormenting her further, taunting her about all the precious memories of Nova that Letha would devour with pleasure.

Only when another citizen had been returned to their home and Letha’s hunger was sated did Kora allow herself a modicum of relaxation, a second to breathe just a little bit easier. It was on one of these days when Kora was told about her son’s impending departure. Skathis had called her into his office and dropped the news without preamble: the buyer was ready and waiting; her son would be taken from her and soon. He hinted that the child’s removal, his sale, might come any time now, but he was careful not to give her any specifics. The vague uncertainty of how much time she had left with her son kept her anxious and on edge, and so she had left herself even more unguarded than usual, under the mistaken assumption that she was safe from prowling goddesses.

And she was completely unaware of Letha’s presence until the two of them nearly collided in the corridor outside Kora’s room.

Letha was still riding the high that power and prestige had brought her from giving birth to her own child just six months earlier. Kora knew it was only a matter of time before Letha and Isagol had other children, though it was a wonder they weren’t pregnant more often, knowing how many men they had thus far brought aboard. She secretly wondered if their lack of participation was due not so much to statistics as it was to vanity and their desire for control. Skathis made sure that all pregnant women on board were monitored closely, given the best care, and served the healthiest meals. They were given whatever they wished for—everything, that is, except the ability to leave their rooms. Despite their status as goddesses and overall freedom aboard the citadel, the same rules applied to Isagol and Letha as the rest of them.

Kora couldn’t blame them for feeling the pressure of confinement. The same rule had applied to her as well, and even though she had concealed her pregnancy for as long as she could, being locked up for almost five months was enough to start driving her a little stir crazy. Even if it was five wonderful months free from the machinations of Isagol and Letha, free from spying for Skathis and doing his dirty work.

The fact that Letha had birthed a healthy girl had them all breathing a little bit easier in the days afterward, none more so than Letha. She paraded around the ship as if it were she and not Isagol who stood second to Skathis. Her child was strong and full of life, and once her powers developed, might be sold for a tidy sum. Since a child’s power couldn’t be predicted, Letha had done her part and done it well, and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it. Especially since her child was tucked safely away in the nursery while Kora was about to lose hers, a fact which had somehow already made its way around the ship.

“Preparing for your goodbyes?” Letha sneered, the look made all the more alarming by her smoky eyes.

Kora tried to step around the woman, but Letha had effectively blocked the entrance to her room. “I’m sure this must be a very trying time for you,” the goddess continued, cocking her head to the side. “And yet you’ve never sought me out. Why is that, Kora? Why will you not let me help you?”

Letha’s right arm stretched casually across her doorway but there was nothing casual in the way she stared at her. Kora took a deep, shuddering breath and attempted a reply. “You’ve already eaten,” she said, and was proud at how her voice barely wavered. “I’d only make you sick.”

Letha laughed at this, a loud and piercing cackle, and dropped her arm, letting Kora pass through her sitting room and into her bedroom. Kora ignored the goddess; she’d stay or go now at her pleasure whether Kora asked to leave or not. As she suspected, Letha followed her inside and immediately sat down in the chair at Kora’s vanity, but Kora was too distracted to care. Her son was leaving her—soon—and she didn’t know what to do or think or where to start. Would Skathis let her go with them? Would he even let her say goodbye? She had the mad thought that perhaps her son would want some of the toys she kept in her room and was halfway to her dressing room when she stopped in her tracks, remembering that she’d already placed them in his crib the previous day.

She stared at the open door of her dressing room. Clothes. Her son would need clothes, wouldn’t he? Would her son’s buyers even provide him with clothes? Buyers, certainly not caretakers. Would they remember to change him? When would they feed him? Would they even try to comfort him when he cried? There had to be something she could do, something she could leave with him, something that would let him know he was loved by someone out there.

Kora stood in the middle of her room, her hands clutching at her hair as her pulse raced and mouth grew dry. The walls swam before her eyes as she tried to steady herself. Time was no longer on her side but what could she do? Past the point of caring what anyone thought of her in that moment, Kora dove into her closet and began to rummage through her dresses, creating a pile beside her as she threw many of them to the floor. Boxes of various necklaces and earrings never worn were tossed over her shoulder from drawers she almost never opened. She wasn’t sure why she even kept the jewelry; Skathis had only given it to her as another one of his insults. _Look at how well you have it here_ , the precious jewels seemed to say. _You never had anything like this in Rieva._

But she’d never wanted them, and she didn’t want them now. But a few more minutes did allow her to find what she needed. She grabbed the soft piece of rectangular cloth and felt something crack inside her. A baby blanket. Her son’s first.

“Something wrong, my dear?”

Kora jumped, and then shook her head. Not only had she almost run into Letha in the hallway but for a brief moment had completely forgotten the woman was there at all. She was distracted, and distraction caused mistakes. She held her head up and attempted to straighten her shoulders, and took a deep breath, trying to calm the shaking in her hands. “Everything’s fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

Letha sat with her legs crossed and her head still tilted to the side, watching Kora. Scrutinizing her every movement. “I can see that you are. . . torn,” she said finally. A corner of her mouth curved upward. “Conflicted. Worried. Exhausted and stressed out.” She enunciated each word, every consonant hard as if savoring their taste on her tongue. Savoring Kora’s pain. She gestured to the room at large.“The offer still stands; it always has. Just say the word and I can make it all go away.”

Kora looked down at the small blanket in her hand and, for a split second, wondered what it would be like. To live life without any worries at all, without having to look over her shoulder every single time she breathed. To live without sadness, without the pain of the past or the unknown agony of the future. To live without wondering just how much more could be taken away.

To live without fear.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. To live like that meant living just like the others. No compassion, no respect, no empathy. No emotion whatsoever. That was not a life but a death sentence. Without the hope that her sister might one day come, without the memories of her son’s smile or the warmth of her bed at night when _he_ was there—no. She wouldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t even consider it.

Letha curled a strand of dark brown hair around her finger. “If I plucked a memory from your mind right now, what would it taste like, I wonder. Would it be as juicy as a plum and full of sunshine and happiness? Would your sister’s laughter spill down my chin, all sticky and sweet? Or might it be a lemon, cloying in its tartness? Would your tears of parting from your son sting sour and unsatisfactory on my lips? Would the last moment with your man ring bitter as a thistle?”

Such mouthwatering words as dripped from Letha’s tongue and yet, for as many decades she’d spent in the citadel, for as many times as she’d seen the woman at the dining room table, Kora had never seen the her eat even a single morsel of human food.

But her words pierced something within Kora, and Letha smiled because she knew. “You never mention him,” Letha said. She stood up then, slowly, languorously, taking her time to relish the tautness in Kora’s stance, the white knuckles as she clenched the blue blanket. “You’re very concerned about your son, we can all see that. But you never say a word about the man. Why is that, I wonder.” She began to circle Kora, never letting her opaque eyes stray from her seemingly impassive face.

“That’s none of your business.” Kora struggled to breathe evenly through her nose. Her uneasy composure was unspooling like a thread, threatening to give way into full blown panic. She couldn’t let them see she was scared. She couldn’t let them know they were getting to her—that they always got to her. They all knew about Nova; of course they all knew about her son. But him. . . she couldn't bear to think about them knowing him too.

“We could make it my business, couldn’t we, my dear?” Letha stopped directly in front of Kora and tipped her chin up until she was looking into the goddess’ milky white eyes. Part of Kora knew she should look away but another, more stubborn, part said to look her straight in the eye. Head up, eyes forward. Show them you’re not afraid.

“Just. . .” Letha’s words took on an echo-y quality, and Kora found herself tipping forward, slowly falling into the mist as swirling clouds enclosed upon her. “. . . say. . . the. . . word.”

 

***

 

Sarai blinked in amazement as Wraith disappeared into her body and Kora reappeared in the dream. This was not the Kora from Minya’s dreams, however, though she still wore the blue mesarthium collar around her neck. No longer the detached and distant figure at the nursery door, this Kora stood before Sarai and Nova with a wealth of emotions playing across her face. Pain, fear, courage, sorrow, regret, longing—Sarai could see every single one that a dream’s instant knowledge granted. But most of all there was love.

Nova immediately began to cry as her hands covered her mouth to hold back the sobs. “Kora? Is it really you?” Her voice was so small and young that, though Sarai had never known her, she saw through the centuries of pain and anguish to the young girl beneath it all, the girl who braved thousands of worlds just to reach her sister.  

Kora stepped up to her sister and placed her hands on Nova’s shoulders. “My love, my own heart, I don’t have much time. I so desperately wanted to be here when you came. I always, always knew you would. I never doubted you for one second in two centuries.  I could feel you out there, trying, and it broke my heart every day. From the moment I sent you the diadem and the letter, I knew you wouldn’t give up on me.”

Sarai tried to give the two young women some privacy to talk. It was their first time together in centuries and, as Kora had said, there wasn’t much time. Not for her or the others, still stuck in Nova’s traps in the waking world. Only Nova’s angry voice, a contrast to the quiet, sweet reunion, brought her attention back to the sisters.

“ _You_ didn’t ruin my life,” Nova was saying furiously. “ _He_ did, when he took you and left me in the dirt. And our father did. Rieva did. You gave me a life, with the diadem. A purpose. Do you think I could have stayed there and had that old man’s babies? I’d have walked straight into the sea. Kora, it knew my name. It called to me. The only thing that kept me alive was knowing that you were out there, and you needed me.”

“And the only thing that kept me alive was knowing you would come,” said Kora. “They took so much from me, Nova. I’ve lost so much. But that was the only thing that kept me alive towards the end, knowing that you were on your way.” She looked down at the ground and clasped her sister’s hands. “I couldn’t bear the thought that you’d get all the way here and find me gone.”

Nova’s broken voice nearly broke Sarai. “ _Are_ you gone?”

By now, Kora was also sobbing, the tears flowing freely down her soft blue cheeks. “Oh my Nova. I am.”

 

***

 

_Fragmented images flitted at the edge of memory._

_Glimpses of white feathers, of wings etched against stars._

 

The memories of the past shuffled across her mind like pages in a book. Skathis descending from the sky in a rush of wind and shoving a young man off Rasalas into Isagol’s eager arms. Isagol and Letha’s sudden appearance at her doorway with the same young man before laughing and shoving him into her room. His face contorted in anger, his voice thick with rage. His startling blue eyes, a blue so bright it matched her skin. She almost couldn’t tear her own eyes away from his, that unexpected color so at odds with the usual dark eyes of the citadel’s other servants.

“Is this what you do up here?” His voice broke through her bewilderment at his sudden arrival. “Am I to be your personal slave now?”

Neither of them knew what the other gods were playing at, though the fact that they were playing a game with them had been clear from the start.

“I am Korako, er, Kora,” she had told him. “What’s your name?” She had tried her hardest to put him at ease throughout their awkward first meeting, but even a simple question about names caused frustration.

He opened his mouth to answer her, but stopped, closed his mouth. His eyes narrowed, his head turned from side to side. “I—” he started, and stopped again. The look on his face was a mixture of confusion, agitation, and anguish, and Kora’s heart broke as he stared at her and said, “Why can’t I remember my name?”

Kora closed her eyes. She could not endure this kind of game; it just wasn’t fair to either of them. “Because they knew I would ask.”

 

_They could feel time ticking by._

 

After much discussion, she convinced him to stay in her room, if only because the alternative—placing him elsewhere—meant he was more “available” for Isagol or Letha to borrow. She didn’t tell him that her door was coded for all six of the Mesarthim to open. It was something Skathis had put in place from their early days aboard the ship that he had never bothered to change, and she’d been too frightened to ask. Now, she wished she had, if only to protect him, though that too left her displeased as it reminded her of her own imprisonment by Skathis. So neither of them were happy with this arrangement at first, but it was the best she could offer him, her guilt at his being chosen for the citadel overwhelming her in her rush to make him the least bit comfortable.

And if time spent in Kora’s presence directed his well-deserved anger at the gods from “you” to “they,” if Kora found herself looking forward to coming back to her room at the end of the day because it meant someone to talk to and share her thoughts with, if he spoke with her about his life in Amezrou and she about life in distant Rieva, well then, it was only natural that feelings would develop after a time.

It was only natural for others; Kora herself had never experienced anything like this before, and each glance, each accidental touch set her skin on fire. She tried to convince herself that this was all part of their plan, that if Letha had eaten his name for her entertainment, then surely Isagol would manipulate their emotions. But this didn’t feel like the other times Isagol had deigned to play with her, and Kora was left more confused than ever over how to interpret both his actions and her feelings.

They shared a bed; they had to. Even though it was certainly large enough for two, she only had the one and couldn’t very well ask for another. He refused to let her sleep on the floor when she offered, and she refused in turn to make him do so as well since, she told him, “You are not my servant.”

So many moments spent together, so many days that turned into months, and they passed as quickly as grains of sand in an hourglass. Strangers became friends, and friends became lovers, and nighttime became their sacred confessional when they whispered aloud all the thoughts and fears they felt they could not share with others. He worried about his parents and younger siblings and how they fared without him. She told him about her mother’s letters. She told him about Nova.

She did not tell him about the diadem. Some things did not ever bare mentioning. They were, of course, still in the presence of gods, and torture still a favorite pastime.

 

 _She little imagined, did she, that_ this _was the very last time?_

 

“Are you all right?” He was sitting up in bed, the blanket pooled around his waist as if he had been up for some time.

Kora smiled ruefully as she rubbed at her neck. “I’m fine,” she said, though even she could hear the exhaustion in her voice. It had been a long day out spying again for Skathis, and the toll it took on her body to maintain hours of sitting upright while her white eagle flew around the world was starting to make itself known. “It’s kind of late, though. Why are you still up?”

He shrugged and grinned roguishly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Liar.” But Kora smiled because she was always secretly glad when she came back to her room to find him still awake. While neither of them obviously liked the games the other gods played, he confessed once that he worried they’d tire of her usefulness just as they tired of the humans on-board. It was a fear that lived constantly at the back of Kora’s mind, but it was strangely comforting to know that someone else thought the same. To be someone that others missed. . . it was not a feeling that Kora had known for a very long time.

“Here, lay down.” She re-emerged from her dressing room in her night clothes to find that he had pulled the covers back and was now kneeling on the bed, gesturing to the spot where she normally slept. When she frowned in confusion, he laughed. “I can help with your neck. I do this—I used to do this for my mother.”

Noting the change of tense in his speech but deciding not to mention it, Kora gave him a small smile. “All right.” She lay down on her stomach, cradling her head in her arms, and felt the warmth of his weight as he settled himself on top of her hips. He moved her long blonde hair away from her neck and the straps of her gown aside and began to rub and press at her shoulders with his broad hands. Soon enough, the pain slowly melted away. Some of his movements, as he kneaded at certain muscles in her back, reminded her of what he’d told her about his life in Amezrou. “Did you say your mother or the bread in your bakery?” she asked with a laugh.

“I’ll have you know that I am an excellent baker.” He used the palm of his hand to push at a particularly hard knot, and Kora groaned through her teeth as the muscle fought against his ministrations.

But as he continued to massage, the tightness in her shoulders and back gradually disappeared, and though parts of her back were sore, something within her had loosened. He maintained quiet as he worked, and while Kora certainly appreciated his offer to help her, a part of her still wondered if he was doing this—if anything he did—was because he wanted to do it or because Isagol had made him want to. So perhaps it was this that spurred her to quietly say to him, “Thank you. For this. I suppose I didn’t realize how these long days were getting to me.”

His hands paused, just for a moment, and she could feel the warmth emanating from them as they hovered over her skin. “They’re so powerful and yet they make you do so much for them,” he said eventually. “I just wish. . . I wish there was some way they could do this without you.”

They had slept together before. They were two adults with burgeoning feelings for each other, no matter where those feelings came from, and eventually sharing the bed became sharing each other. After the first time, she had cried, and then cried again when he thought it was because of him, and she had to somehow explain Isagol’s powers and how she might be affecting them even then as they lay with their arms around each other. He assured her that what he felt was real, kissing her gently and murmuring all sorts of sweet things until she fell asleep in his arms. But Kora had grown up with the gods while he had grown up with rumors, and the thought that it might all be fake was never far from the back of her mind, try as she might to forget it.

But this. _I wish. . . I wish there was some way they could do this without you._ Something reached right into her chest and squeezed her heart when he said that. Because he wasn’t wishing for a way to help the others stolen from town, he wasn’t wishing for her to help him find a way to escape on his own, he wasn’t even wishing that he had not been picked by Skathis. If the gods were going to do horrible things, they would do horrible things regardless. No, he simply wished that _she_ not be forced to suffer the harshness of life she had thus far endured.

That couldn’t have been from Isagol, she told herself. It just couldn’t have been. So when he climbed off of her and laid his head on the pillow beside her, his curly black hair in that rumply disarray she loved so well, she grabbed him with such fervor that it surprised even herself.

It was the only time she let him finish inside her, and she shook as much from the release as she did from his whispered words _I love you too._

Several days later, Kora was called to go out on a routine mission for Skathis. She crawled out of bed, untangling herself from both her bed sheets and her love while the sky was still dark. She didn’t wake him, though. _He should sleep_ , she later remembered thinking. _I can talk to him when I get back._  

It was like every other time she’d been called to go on a mission. Why would she think it would be any different? How was she to know that Letha and Isagol had been closely monitoring their relationship? Letha’s eyes were cloudy more often than not. It had never occurred to her to ask _whose_ memories she’d been eating—at least, not until Isagol had “accidentally” let it slip they’d been using her lover the entire time.

 

_Every thought was a stab, every memory a slash,_

_until numbness finally descended._

 

That night, when Kora made her way back to her room, he was gone, and so, she came to discover, were Skathis and Rasalas. After that, she didn’t leave her room unless she had to, going so far as to make the servants leave her food at the door, though most of the time she never even touched the stuff. She barely even registered Letha’s pregnancy announcement and ensuing seclusion. And when, two weeks after that, she spent several days on the floor of her bathroom, the intensity of her nausea keeping her face pressed against the coolness of the mesarthium, only then did the thoughts connect in her mind and the dam break, bringing forth a new flood of tears. They had won. They had won. They had won again, and she was left to face this alone.

 

_It was time to play this game to its end, and have her way at last._

 

“Get. Out.” Kora’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. At some point, she had fallen down and now sat crouched on the ground, her arms hugging her knees to her chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Letha took a gentle step and cupped her ear, leaning over her.

“I said GET OUT.” Kora was practically vibrating with rage. “You don’t deserve a single _second_ of those memories. GET. OUT.” Kora jumped to her feet and lunged at Letha; she hadn’t planned on touching the woman, only scaring her, and she watched to her satisfaction as Letha stumbled backwards before turning and escaping out the door. The narrow-eyed glance she threw Kora over her shoulder told her this wouldn’t be their last confrontation, but Kora no longer cared. Her son would be taken from her soon, and now the memories of her love were no longer hers to keep either.

 

***

 

The Duke of Vaal stifled a yawn as his horse pawed at the ground restlessly. The clearing in which they waited sat close to an old hunting lodge that had last been used by the queen’s grandfather and ran just down the road from the border they shared with Maialen in the north. With their neighbor’s frequent lack of sunlight and the lodge’s proximity to the giant limestone gorge that sat just inside the opposite border, hunting parties had never been very successful in that region. The queen could never quite recall what made her grandfather want a lodge built in such an unyielding landscape but for all its old purposes, it now sat empty and that suited the duke’s current purpose just fine.

His guest was running late and so the duke kept himself occupied by wondering if the game in the region had replenished itself in recent years or if it was just as barren as ever. He’d amused himself as he waited by watching an unusually large white eagle circle the surrounding trees and wished not for the first time that he had brought his bow and arrow. It was too late now, though. His guest was due any minute, and there would be no time after he left to go hunting. Not with an extra passenger in tow.

A rustling of leaves caught his attention just then, and the eagle gave a piercing shriek as it suddenly took to the sky. The slight rustling quickly grew to a swishing, and then to a shaking, and then a surging downdraft that forced him to tighten the reins on his horse as it bucked backwards beneath him. Once he wiped the dirt and grit thrown up from the abrupt windstorm out of his eyes, the duke looked up and saw what had caused the sudden commotion.

He blinked. A large. . . contraption hovered in the sky above him. It was long and thin overall, and seemed to be made of several oblong pieces connected together. It took the duke more than a few seconds to process that it was in the shape of a wasp. A giant, blue wasp. It lingered above the treeline for only a moment longer before moving again, coming about and landing in front of the duke in the clearing. The duke didn’t think the large object would fit, but somehow it seemed to find space to place itself with plenty of room to spare. If the duke didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn the wasp had shrunk itself to do so.

The wasp made absolutely no noise at all, its wings flickering up and down soundlessly, but still the duke tightened his grip on his reins once more and directed his horse forward, stopping only when a piece of the wasp’s side abruptly opened up. If the duke was perplexed at the sight of a giant blue insect flying in to greet him, he was certainly not prepared for what stepped out of it.

“Monster” was the only word that came to mind upon viewing the creature that strode out. And while his mind registered too that a man—a _blue_ man—sat atop it, that fact was barely noticeable, any and all other words forgotten. Even “monster” paled in comparison to the anatomically impossible grotesque stalking towards him. Empty eye sockets, misshapen skull, large folded wings bereft of half its feathers so that bone peeked through here and there. . . Each glance struck the duke as more hideous than the last, and he did not know where to look until he had to look away, but not before noticing the small cruel smile upon the blue man’s face.

“I believe I have something you want,” the blue man spoke. He did not dismount to meet the duke nor did he bow his head or apologize for his tardiness or show any kind of gesture of respect.

The duke straightened himself in his saddle and swallowed audibly, fiercely hoping that he might quickly regain the upper hand in this meeting. “And I have your payment.”

 

*

 

The two men now stood before each other on the ground, their respective mounts waiting behind them. The duke felt much better now that he was holding the sleeping child in his arms, though he wouldn’t be completely satisfied until the other man had left completely. But so far—despite the large flying wasp, the giant monster lurking nearby, the man’s blue skin—everything had gone to plan. He knew his wife wouldn’t be happy with her role in the negotiations, but the man had closed the door to the wasp with a wave of his hand, and it was much more peaceful now that they could no longer hear her screaming.

There was just one more thing that needed to be settled.

“The blue,” he stated, moving a piece of the blanket to allow himself a better look at the child’s cornflower skin. “How long until that goes away?”

The man crossed his arms and gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes. “And why would you want that to go away?”

The duke cleared his throat and shifted the sleeping bundle in his arms. The sooner he could get out of there, the better, if only so he could finally put the child down. “While I am certain many would say it’s a lovely color, I can’t very well tell everyone I have a blue child, can I?” He tried to smile, though his mouth was stiff and unused to such movement, but given the way the man kept staring at him, he hoped that such an action might soften the apparent insult in his words.

The man shrugged, gesturing vaguely to the surrounding clearing. “Why not? I have blue children.” A broad grin broke out across his face then, and he chuckled. “Fine. You want a _normal_ child?” He began to circle the duke, keeping his eyes locked on the man while the duke struggled to do the same. “It wasn’t part of the bargain, you know. But I suppose I can humor you.” And here he reached around the duke toward the child. It happened so fast, the duke wasn’t even sure he’d touched him, but when he looked down, the baby was still asleep, his blanket back in place. “It may take some time but the blue will go away.”

The man now stood back in front of the duke, and he gestured to the creature behind him. The monster stalked towards them before crouching to allow the man to climb aboard his back. From above, the man looked even more imperious as he stared down his nose at the duke.

“Is there anything else you require?”

The duke narrowed his eyes at the mockery inherent in his question. Hadn’t this strange man—who never once gave his true name—been the one to contact  _him_? The duke could not be rid of him faster, but there was one thing still weighing on his mind and his anger at this strange man’s arrogance was not enough to hold his tongue.

“Well, he’s just a little bit younger than you implied in our exchanges, isn’t he.” The duke held the child up, jiggling him a bit in the process, and the baby scrunched up his blue face in discomfort at the sudden movement. “When can I expect him to make good on our deal?”

The man threw his head back and laughed as his creature prowled towards the wasp, the opening in the side appearing once more. “You could start by hiring some good tutors,” he called over his shoulder. “A little bird once told me you have a great university in Zosma. You could start there.”

“T-teach him?!” The duke sputtered, his face growing red. “You-you said he already knew how!” But his words fell on deaf ears as the door in the side of the wasp closed behind the man and his monster. Suddenly, faster than even the duke anticipated, the ship shot straight up in the air, eerie in its silence as it sped away. A white eagle, possibly the same one he’d spotted before, took to the sky with another piercing shriek. His horse, having been left tied to a nearby branch, whickered nervously at the new gust of wind that tore through the clearing, and the duke found himself alone with his new blue son.

 

***

 

Kora watched the proceedings through the eyes of her eagle on a perch in a nearby tree, and it took everything in her not to fly down, grab her child from that man’s arms, and zap herself far away from him and Skathis and everything they represented. It was only the constant threat that Skathis still had the means to find Nova that kept her from clawing out their eyes with her razor sharp talons.

As it was, Kora could only watch for so long until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Skathis had let her come because he knew it would bother her, but in true Skathis fashion, only allowed her eagle to come. She assumed he did it out of some sort of fear that she would try to involve herself in some way, possibly pleading with the duke himself. It wasn’t until Skathis locked the duke’s wife away in one of the small rooms aboard his ship that she realized her mistake in what he thought she might interfere with.

Kora took off just as Skathis himself stepped back into his ship with Rasalas. The mesarthium creature was looking even more hideous than usual that day, and she would’ve lost her breakfast at the sight of it if her eagle had been capable of eating. She wondered why he brought the wasp ship at all when he usually favored that particular monster, but of course, he needed room for the woman, and Rasalas’ presence on the ship was easily excusable. Skathis could have crushed the duke with a piece of mesarthium within seconds, but men like that were more readily cowed by great shows of muscle and power. Rasalas, care of Skathis, had all of that and more.

Kora was more than ready to make the long flight back to Zosma by herself, alone in her thoughts, but the wasp ship was flying faster than usual, which could only mean one thing: Skathis was not happy. She knew it had something to do with the duke, who had so brazenly questioned Skathis about their bargain, but as to what exactly provoked his wrath, she only knew that her late return to Zosma would enrage him further. She clung precariously to the top of the wasp with her claws and allowed it to carry her back to the citadel.

Once back and reunited with her bird, Kora wiped her tear-stained face, closed the window behind his desk, and waited for Skathis to return to his office, where he had left her. She did not have long to wait.

She could tell he really let his temper get the best of him when he came bursting through the door, hurling it open with his own arm instead of mind. The door bounced against the wall before slamming shut, the noise an explosion of sound that set her teeth on edge. Skathis himself, however, was eerily silent as he stepped behind the large mesarthium desk and took a small item out of his pocket. It was a circular medallion of the blue metal, the very same medallion her son so recently wore. It would have given her son the ability to turn anything to gold, but without it, he was like any other normal child. Kora stupidly hoped that perhaps Skathis would allow her to have it, a tortuous reminder of what she’d lost, but still precious for all of that.  Instead, he tossed the medallion up and down in his hand several times before suddenly hurling it at Kora, the small blue piece of metal narrowly missing her left eye. It embedded itself in the mesarthium wall behind her where it was quickly reabsorbed within seconds.

“That was not for you,” Skathis snarled. “He dares question our bargain? He dares insult me? Let him get his gold now.” He collapsed back into his chair, his face a twisted grimace of anger but also delight at how his trick would cost the duke.

Kora had better sense than to thank him for what appeared as a beacon of light in the darkness felt after losing her son. Good deeds as done by Skathis were a double-edged sword. He had saved her son from a lifetime of being used as Zosma’s own currency maker, but in taking away his power, her son had been left even more powerless. What would the duke do once he realized his new son could not do what was promised? She had no doubt that her son was in even greater trouble now than before. Surely it was not possible that the man would keep the child after being deceived in such a manner. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to rush straight back to Zosma and find him, Skathis be damned.

But not while Skathis was in this kind of mood. For as much as she hated him, for as much as she wished she could be rid of him and life in this citadel forever, she knew she was no match for him. If Nova were there, she’d simply steal his power away from him and then he’d be completely at their mercy. If Nova were there, Kora would know her sister was safe. If Nova were there, Kora would be safe.

It always came back to Nova. Kora wished she were powerful enough to take on the other gods herself, but she sometimes feared even if the mesarthium had granted her a greater gift—a war gift like her mother, perhaps—she’d be no more powerful than her weak character allowed, which was to say, not very powerful at all. She lost her sister, she lost her lover, and she lost her son because she was not strong enough to hold on to any of them.

Skathis was silent again as he sat back in his chair, but he had yet to dismiss her from the room and so she stayed. She knew better than speak about her son or even ask after the duke’s wife. Watching the duke hand over his struggling wife to a waiting Skathis put her in mind of how her mother must have been taken all those years ago. And Kora was convinced now that her mother had been taken, that it was not her choice to abandon her two young daughters, not even for the glory of becoming a Servant to the empire. While the letters themselves no longer existed, the words her mother wrote were never far from her mind.

_I would have chosen you, if they had let me choose._

It was right there in her mother’s words: it had never been about her choice at all—Kora understood that now—just the gold her father received and the new sledge and oven he’d bought with the payment.

Just as today had not been about getting the better of a deal with a seller—getting the duke’s wife was just a bonus—but about teaching Kora a lesson. Little pockets of happiness, that was all she’d ever been allowed in life, and she'd paid for them all. Nova, her lover. Her son was just another loss to add to the list.

Kora kept her composure until Skathis finally dismissed her, and she went back to her room to cry.

 

***

 

By now, Sarai was crying too.

“ _No_.” Nova’s legs gave out and she fell to the floor on her knees. “I was too late,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Kora.”

“ _No_ ,” Kora repeated vehemently, joining her sister on the floor. “What I asked of you was impossible. How could a girl from nowhere, with nothing, cross dozens of worlds all on her own?”

“It wasn’t impossible,” said Nova. “I did it! Which only means I could have done it _faster_.”

Kora shook her head. “It’s not your fault. I should have gotten free and found you. I should have been stronger. I was too much of a coward. I couldn’t—I couldn’t be strong when it counted. I could never stand up to him. Not for them, and not for you.”

“It isn’t weak to ask for help.” Nova said, and gently held her hand against her sister’s face.

“It’s weak not to help yourself. And I couldn’t. I did nothing. They took you away from me. And I just—I let them take the others away from me too. I couldn’t—” Kora stopped, biting her lower lip as the emotions overwhelmed her. “I let them take so much from me. But I tried, Nova, really, I did. I stole a smith baby before Skathis could kill him. I took him and hid him far away, so that when he was older I could end Skathis and not be trapped on the wrong side of a portal. I would have found you. But I didn’t act soon enough, and then I ran out of time.”

Nova began to protest her sister’s words, but Kora pulled them both back to their feet and continued speaking, this time with a greater urgency. “And I’m running out of time right now. Nova, you must listen to me. Nova, listen to me. If you’re here, then you’ll know what became of me and also. . . what I became.” Shame clung to her words. “I know you would have been stronger. You’d have saved all those children instead of helping sell them. My love, I know you’ll be angry, but I want you to listen to me. I wanted so much to be here for you, for—for them, but that doesn’t mean I deserved to live. I was part of something terrible, whether I chose it or not. They weren’t wrong to kill us. Promise me: _no vengeance_. I couldn’t bear to—to go knowing that that’s the kind of world I’ve left for him. Let all the ugliness end here. _Please_. I love you so much.”

Kora wrapped her arms around Nova, and Nova clutched at her sister, sobbing into Kora’s shoulders. Sarai watched as Kora murmured something to Nova, something low she couldn’t make out, causing Nova to choke on a sob as her head thrust back in surprise. “What?” The shock on her face, the pure turmoil from whatever Kora had related to her quickly changed over to sheer heartbreak as Kora—or her phantasm—faded, having fulfilled its purpose for staying in their world at last. And Nova was once again left alone. Sobbing and alone.

Confused as she was by some of Kora’s words, Sarai could only stand there with her arms wrapped around her middle, the air thick with devastation and tears. Eventually, Nova remembered that she too was there, and looked up at her, but Sarai found she had nothing left to say except:

“I’m sorry.”

Though Sarai wished with all her being that she contained within her the power to heal even the most broken of hearts, she could only watch as Nova turned her stunned face to the floor and began to rock back and forth, shaking her head from side to side. “No, no,” she kept muttering. “ _No_.”

Instead, all Sarai tried to introduce a steady measure of calm to the dream in the hope that it would prevent Nova from cracking completely and dragging them all under with her. “She loved you very much,” Sarai told her softly. “She never doubted you. She knew you would do the impossible for her. Do you know how rare that is, to trust someone like that?”

“I already killed them,” Nova whispered to her hands. “She said _no vengeance_ , but I already killed them. How can I tell him—”

There were so many dead left in Nova’s wake but Sarai knew immediately, in that instantaneous rush of knowledge that dreams often provide, who she meant. “Oh! No,” she said. “They’re alive. Sparrow saved them.”

Nova took a deep, shaky breath, closing her eyes in relief.  “Really?”

 

***

 

A drop of perspiration rolled down the back of the duke’s neck as he waited for the queen to speak, and he fought the urge to shift in his jacket as the bead of sweat continued its way down his back. The last chill day had come and gone, and the sun shone brightly through the windows in the sky outside. But despite the fine weather, every brazier that lined the larger, more public throne room and each candle in the multiple chandeliers that hung above him had been lit. Perhaps the cold marble of the giant columns and hard floor had seeped a permanent chill into the old woman’s bones that required the constant presence of fire to keep her warm. Or perhaps she merely intended to make him as uncomfortable as possible while she kept him waiting—as he had kept her waiting.

He had not meant to delay his arrival to court, but necessity demanded it. Though the strange man had promised his new child would not keep his blue coloring, he had neglected to inform the duke just how long it would take to go away. When the blue first started to lighten, the duke was hopeful; a fast return to normal meant a fast start on making gold. But then the blue turned to gray, and he feared he’d been sold a sickly child, afraid that he’d have to return to court and face the queen with nothing.

Luckily, for both him and the child, the gray soon went away, and the baby looked as happy and healthy as any other child of nobility in Zosma. But all of that had cost him several days, and while he sent a quick letter on ahead, he suspected the queen knew he hadn’t been entirely truthful with her. He couldn’t very tell her stories of blue men and flying wasps and grotesque monsters, and his shortened version of the tale rang false even to his ears.

So there he stood, sweating profusely as candlelight shone before him and sunlight above him, waiting for the queen to forgive him.

She made him continue to stand in silence as she went through the ritual of pulling out the small lavender bag she kept at her side and cleaning her spectacles before placing them back upon her face. Only then did she condescend to speak.

“Please accept my condolences on behalf of Zosma over the. . . death of your wife.” She spoke slowly, which would be read by any bystander as grief, though the duke detected a hint of annoyance as well. “Such a tragedy, to die in childbirth while on holiday.”

“I thank you, your Majesty.” The duke bowed his head sadly over the small but increasingly heavy bundle in his arms. “She wanted to enjoy the fresh air of the forest before she was confined to bed for her time, and I believe she enjoyed her last days at your lodge. I thank you again for allowing us to stay there as I now have such dear memories of her I am able to cherish.” The words felt as thick as syrup on the duke’s tongue and just as sickly sweet. It was all for show, and therefore must be performed, but thankfully the charade would be ending soon.

“Bring him to me,” the queen commanded, stretching out her left arm in a beckoning motion. The duke bowed again before approaching the throne, and climbed the dais to show her the child.

She peered down her nose through her glasses at the bundle curiously. “His hair. . .” The queen wrapped a small curl around her finger before letting it bounce back onto the baby’s head. “It’s very yellow.”

The corner of the duke’s mouth began to curl into a smile. “Golden, you might say.”

The queen blinked, and then she too—finally—smiled. “Well,” she said crisply, “I assume you’ll be heading back to your estate at some point but I do hope you will allow me to spend a little more time with my new godson.”

The duke dropped to one knee, cradling the child to his chest, and bowed low. “You are too kind, your Majesty.”

“It is the least I can do,” she said, inclining her head magnanimously. “This boy is destined for great things in his life, and I intend to make sure he has the best materials available and to be there when it happens.”

“Oh, this boy _will_ do great things, your Majesty,” the duke promised, understanding the inherent threat in the gift she bestowed. He stood up and looked her fully in the eye. “I assure you.”

 

***

 

The knock was light enough that Kora felt no misgivings in answering the door, looking as she knew she must with red eyes and wet cheeks. Only timid servants knocked like that, as if so completely afraid of the gods that their fear extended even to her. She had long since given up on trying to befriend any of the ones that came knocking though. She did not participate in any of the others’ depraved activities, but she knew her cowardice in confronting them made her just as culpable.

Smoothing her blond hair from her face, she approached the door, only hoping that if it were a summons from Skathis, she’d have enough time to fully clean up before he expected her presence.

It was not a servant.

Without waiting for an invitation, Letha strode past her straight into the room as if she owned the placed. _She probably thinks she does_ , Kora thought with disdain. “Can I help you?” She asked the other goddess flatly.

Letha pivoted lightly on the balls of her feet and faced Kora, giving her an appraising look. Her long gray gown ended in a train of what looked like hundreds of doves’ wings stitched together, and the feathers curled around her feet as she placed her hands on her hips. “I heard today was rather rough,” she said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.” Her eyes were smoky but the brown irises were just visible behind the cloudiness.

The Goddess of Oblivion was on the hunt. What she wanted, Kora knew then, were her memories.

Letha stepped forward and let her hand gently trail over Kora’s hair down to her shoulder and then leaned forward so that their faces were level. “I bet you’d like me to have those, am I right?” she whispered. “Today was such a difficult day. I would love to offer you some relief.”

Kora jerked her shoulder away, Letha’s touch like the sting of a scorpion on her skin.

“No? What a shame,” Letha continued, letting her singsong voice trip lightly around Kora’s room. She let loose a random giggle, setting Kora’s nerves on edge, goose pimples prickling her body. “I bet a meal such as your despair would have made a good one. Maybe later, once you’ve had time to stew in your sorrow and melt into your melancholy.” She cocked her head to the side as she reached the doorway, her hand resting on the door jamb. “You know, perhaps I will do just that. I haven’t had such a savory meal in so long, and I feel like yours would be _exquisite_.”

There were so many memories that Kora did not want to lose, could not lose: her mother’s letters, whispering to her love in the dark, the feel of her son in her arms. Nova. Though the loss of her son had left her feeling hollow, the loss of her memories would result in her living as a mere shell of her former self. There would be nothing left, and then she really would spend the rest of her life as a tool of Skathis. Except. . .

“Then do it,” she whispered. Her heart beat erratically in her chest as Letha’s head whipped around.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Kora looked up at the blue goddess, her hands clenched at her sides. “You always threaten that you’re going to eat my memories. Why don’t you just do it then, if they’ll taste as good as you think.”

Letha blinked slowly, her long lashes closing over her opaque eyes, and Kora briefly wondered if any of her victims had ever talked back to her. Most likely not, she thought, as a slow grin spread across the woman’s face.

“Would you really let me?” Letha purred, strutting forward. “Was today’s loss really that _excruciating_?”

Kora resisted the urge to curl her lip as Letha was practically salivating in front of her. “Not any less harder than all the other losses I’ve suffered. All I ask—”

Letha laughed, a high-pitched titter that hung in the air like icicles. “I don’t think you’re in position to be asking for anything at the moment, my dear.”

“All I ask,” Kora continued, working through her fear and facing Letha head-on, “is that you let me be there when you tell Skathis what you’ve done.”

“W-what?” Letha blinked again, this time rapidly in surprise.

“I want to be there when you tell Skathis you’ve eaten all my memories.” She took a step forward and a little thrill ran through her as Letha stepped back in response.

“And why would Skathis care about my meals, hmm?” She thrust her pointed chin upwards but that didn’t conceal from Kora the slight hint of worry in her hazy eyes.

“I am sure he doesn’t give a fig for whose memories you eat as long as you eat the right ones.” Kora took another step forward, urging Letha back yet again towards the door. “But I’m fairly certain he would care if you ate mine because that’s the only leverage he has over me.”

Letha’s eyebrows shot up and she opened her mouth to speak, but Kora continued. “Now, that is a great amount of leverage. I won’t lie and say I’m not terrified that Skathis might one day seek out my sister and destroy her, but you—if _you_ took away my memories of her, he’d never get me to do his bidding again. If I didn’t have my sister, I’d rather die than do what Skathis wants, and he knows that.” Kora took another step and then another until Letha was forced just outside her doorway. “The father of my child is gone, and today I lost my son as well. I have nothing left but my sister, and if you take them away, if you take her away, I really want to be there when you tell Skathis you cost him his power over me.”

Not wanting to hear any more threats or protestations, Kora shut the door in Letha’s face.

Once the door was closed, Kora slumped against it, her heart pounding so loud she could hear it echoing in her ears. Standing up to Letha felt good. It was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done, and it just ensured her position as Skathis’ creature for all of eternity, but in a day rife with loss and powerlessness, it felt very good nonetheless.

 

***

 

The relief on Nova’s face was such a contrast from her previous expressions that Sarai felt her hearts immediately lighten, and the knot of tension in her stomach unraveled just a bit.

“Really,” she told her. Perhaps if Nova felt some anguish over what she’d done to Eril-Fane and Azareen, then maybe some of Kora’s words were having a positive effect. “He’s my father, the one who. . .” She stopped, realizing that mentioning what her father had done probably wouldn’t help Nova’s changing attitude. She tried instead to find a way to relate them all together; Nova might find some comfort in knowing that she wasn’t the only one who felt they had something to atone for.

“He also did terrible things to save the people he loved. It wasn’t his fault. And it wasn’t Kora’s, or yours. It was the gods, like a canker at the center of everything. But they’re gone. Let the ugliness die with them.”

 _Let the ugliness end here._ Kora’s words hung between them like the ghost of her former self.

“Can you? Please?” Sarai pleaded on behalf of herself and Kora; for Lazlo, her Lazlo, who was still stuck in his cage; for Rook, Kiska, and Werran who were also trapped, both physically and figuratively under Nova’s command; and for all the others, who were just as trapped until and unless she could help Nova let them go.

Nova, her arms hugging her middle, looked up at Sarai, and in a moment she was transformed. She dropped her arms to her sides and straightened her shoulders; this dream had been a trip to the past, but she was needed—they were both needed—in the present. As soon as her dream self locked eyes again with Sarai, the dream tore itself apart, and the two of them toppled over and out like pieces of quell after Minya had upended the board.

Nova, the real Nova who had been sleeping in Minya’s place at the table, bolted upright, tearing herself away from Sarai’s touch, and jumped out of her chair. They stood facing each other, their breaths both coming very fast as they realized at once that they were the only two in the room who now knew the truth, the truth of everything, even as Sarai was still struggling to understand what it all meant. But as palpable as the truth was between them, this was no longer a dream, and Sarai could no longer feel what Nova was feeling. She couldn’t understand what Nova was thinking nor even understand her language.

Sarai knew that the next few moments were crucial. She recognized in Nova’s strained and hunched form a wounded animal willing to fight until the end. One wrong move, and Nova could destroy them all with a flick of the wrist or even a single thought. Sarai knew without turning her head that Tzara’s bow would still be raised, arrow at the ready, and she desperately hoped that Tzara and everyone else would keep still. Too afraid to turn or speak lest she startle Nova, Sarai chose instead to slowly raise one hand to those huddled under the archway.

One hand, palm out. _Hold_.

 

***

 

Despite her five seconds of bravery in going up against Letha, the next several months went by in a hazy blur for Kora. Or perhaps they were just days. Sometimes they felt like years. Skathis kept her to a normal schedule: spying throughout the land, testing children in the nursery, more spying, more testing, spying, testing. It was all the same, and would always be the same for as long as they spent their unending lives on that world. She should never have thought any different. Nova wasn’t coming, no one in Amezrou would remember her as anything other than a monster, and her child no longer existed. Even the bright azure of the mesarthium seemed to have dulled to a unpolished blue-gray.

Kora couldn’t help herself. On days when it felt like she couldn’t breathe, when the air pressed in thick and heavy on her chest, she found herself wandering through the nursery after everyone else had gone to bed. Whether she thought the presence of so many children would bring her peace or be the final crack in the dam that was her mind, even she did not know. All she knew was that there were moments, most often after time spent with Skathis, where she knew that if she couldn’t get away, and get away _now_ , she would break into a thousand pieces and scatter herself to the ends of the earth.

And somehow, after those moments, she found herself in the nursery. For all that it reminded her of her son, it was a quiet and innocent place, and if she couldn’t prevent herself from bringing the misery of the world into that small island of calm, then perhaps she didn’t deserve to live after all. Shattering herself into a thousand pieces was most appealing, if only because she imagined taking the entire citadel with her. And instead of debris, small white feathers would slowly drift down upon the town, an act of mercy and apology all in one.

But the nursery, of all places, quieted those thoughts. She had avoided the room at first, putting off her obligations to Skathis by merely asking the female caretakers if they’d noticed any powers manifesting without actually having to step into the room itself. But the nursery called to some deep part of herself, and so she went, and so the dark thoughts grew quiet. It was hard to have such twisted ideas of death and despair floating around one’s head when there were toddlers sucking their thumbs and babies cooing all around. It wasn’t their fault they existed. It wasn’t their fault _how_ they existed.

She couldn’t help but avoid one of the cribs, though. Her son’s crib, left empty since he had left her. Kora had been tempted at first to ask if he could sleep in her room—after all, wouldn’t that free up space for another baby?—but had held her tongue in the end in the mistaken belief that following the rules might keep her on Skathis’ good side. It hadn’t.

That night, like all the nights, Kora made her rounds, checking in on all the children, paying close attention to the new ones and those who’d lately been sick.

There was only one new baby that night.

Kora felt the crack within her splinter, spider-webbing outwards not just in her mind but in her heart as well. Her son’s crib was not empty. She crept towards it, even more careful than usual not to make a sound, as if she dare not disturb the child who surely must know whose spot they occupied and had taken it on purpose.

She tried to avoid looking at the side of the crib where the small temporary card bearing the child’s name and parentage hung. In the beginning, the nameplates has all been mesarthium. Skathis was very proud of his new business venture and wanted the nursery to be well-kept, their so-called goods well cared for. But after awhile, he became greedy, snatching up more and more women until there were so many babies that he didn’t have time to stop by and change out the names in the metal. Let the human females who watched the children do that. It wasn’t like the children kept their nameplates so what need had they for a fancy introduction anyway?

But as she inched closer and closer to the new child, Kora forced herself to read the card anyway. This was her job now: visiting the children and testing them once their powers came into fruition. And it wasn’t as if the child had truly requested her son’s crib anyway. Skathis however. . . Kora wasn’t sure if it had been done on purpose—it was possible it had been the only crib open at the time of placement—but she couldn’t help but think it fitting that her child’s crib be taken over by one belonging to Skathis.

As Kora peered over the side of the crib, she found the little boy quietly staring back up at her, his gray eyes wide and unblinking. A smile sprang unbidden to Kora’s face. Her own son had spent the first week of his life with his days and nights mixed up, though he had cried and wailed with the best of them. This little boy, however, just looked at her, content in waiting to be found rather than demanding it.

Who was he waiting for, she wondered. Was he waiting for his mother who would never come? Kora sat on the floor next to the new baby’s crib and pulled her legs to her chest. _What does your mother think about all of this?_ She watched as the little boy pumped his feet and gurgled quietly to himself. _What did she think when she first looked in the mirror after returning and discovered her stretch marks?_

Thanks to Letha, none of the men and women remembered their time aboard the ship. In some cases, Kora reflected bitterly, perhaps it was a blessing. She did not think love, any kind of love, could survive long in an environment thick with fear, where breathing came hard and panic choked all clarity of thought.

But in other cases… Kora did not want to think what it would be like to not remember her son. Would it be better or worse, knowing she had given birth with no memory attached to what happened after? For all she was aware, Letha very well could have eaten any number of her smaller memories as she always threatened to, but the memory of watching Skathis hand over her son… That memory had stayed, and not even a small, stolen vial from the kitchens holding a distilled concoction of Letha’s sacred anadne flower could keep her from reliving that nightmare over and over.

Kora stuck her finger between the bars of the crib, and the baby instinctively grabbed at it, his grip strong and tight. _Does she remember any part of you_? She silently questioned him. _Does she feel the phantom pressure of a tiny hand wrapped around her finger? Does she recall those sleepless nights when you kept her up with your kicking? Did she dream of what you might look like and the perfect name to match your face?_

_Does she wake in the mornings with her arms cradling her pillow?_

Kora pulled her finger from the baby’s grip and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. _Did they even let her hold you before they took you away?_

As if sensing Kora’s somber mood, the tiny boy stopped his little gurgling and began to fuss, scrunching his face up in a mess of chubby wrinkles.

Kora reached through the crib and placed her hand on the baby’s stomach and began to gently rock him. She didn’t know what made her do it—who was this child to her?—but an old lullaby of Rieva came to mind just then, a remembrance of home so strong that she began to sing.

It was a song she’d heard sung in her village, a lullaby whose lonesome words and mournful melody seemed at odds with the warm and loving image of a mother singing to her child. Kora had only been a year old when her mother left but the letters she sent back were so full of love for her two daughters, it only followed that she would have shown them the same love and affection in the short time she’d known them. Kora wondered if their mother had sung them. She wished she’d been able to sing to her child.

The baby continued to whimper and fuss but quietly now as Kora kept a steady rhythm to her rocking. She wondered if the boy’s mother had been able to care for him as she was now, or if her pleas to hold her son had fallen on deaf ears. Or if the woman had even bothered to try after her treatment at the hands of Skathis.

So Kora sang, because she could not sing to her own son, because so many mothers were without children to sing to.

 

 _Jag minnes dig, var morgon solen tänder_  
_sitt klara ljus, och lyser världen opp_  
_min tanke städse blott, till dig sig vänder_  
_till dig som var min vän, min tröst, mitt hopp_

_I remember you when the sun lights_

_its clear light and shines upon the world_

_my thoughts always go with you_

_to you who was my friend, my solace and my hope_

 

Kora rested her head against the side of the crib and let the words of the song wash over her. It was in times like these, when the world grew dark and her lungs nearly suffocated from lack of hope, that Kora missed her sister so desperately she thought the pain would never end.

Nova was her twin in everything but age. She was Kora’s smile when she could not find her own, Kora’s heart when her spirits needed lifting, and Kora’s shield against their stepmother’s strikes, just as Kora was for Nova when she needed her. Nova was the one person she could count on when life felt too heavy.

Life without Nova was like living in the oppressive heat of summer, when the air was thick and humid, and it was hard to breathe. It wouldn’t kill you, but it was uncomfortable, and Kora knew she wouldn’t breathe easy again until her Nova came back.

 

 _Jag minnes dig, när middagsolens strålar_  
_och sänder värme, liv och ljus och fröjd_  
_mitt hjärte dig i kärleksfärger målar_  
_och suckar sänder emot himlens höjd_

_I remember you when the midday sun beams_

_and sends warmth, life, light and delight_

_my heart paints you in love's colors_

_and sends a sigh towards the heavens_

 

Kora held the absence of the man she loved as an ever present ache in her heart. Despite the presence of Isagol and Letha hovering at the back of their minds, the time they spent together had been an island free from fear, from the constant state of uneasiness in which she normally lived. The touch of his body lying next to hers, the strength of his arms around her shoulders, the warmth of his breath against her neck. The way she could hear the smile in his voice when he said her name.

She thought of him and hated that he couldn’t think of her.

 

 _Jag minnes dig, när aftonen sig sänker_  
_och sveper oss uti sin slöja in_  
_men nattens tystnad mig ej lignet skänker_  
_jag minnes dig, den tid då du var min_

_I remember you when the sun is setting_

_and dusk pulls down its dark veil_

_but the silent night does not calm me_

_I remember the time when you were mine_

 

By the time Kora finished the last line of the song, the boy had quieted once more. She kept her hand on his belly for a moment longer in the silence and breathed deeply. The smell of newborns had never hit her quite so sharply as it did once she’d had her own, and she remembered his with a pang so fierce tears stung her eyes.  

If she closed them again, she could pretend everything was fine. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he was her son.

She took one more deep breath and slowly, reluctantly, pulled her hand away. Once her hand was out of reach, the baby lurched suddenly, rolling over onto his side, and grabbed at the next best thing within his reach. He wrapped his tiny fingers around a bar of the crib, but since he couldn’t wiggle that around like he could Kora’s hand, he abandoned that game all too quickly.

When he let go of the crib’s mesarthium bar, Kora gasped and scrambled backwards. The bar was no longer smooth and straight, but compressed, molded, the perfect imprint of a child’s fist staring back at her. No one could affect mesarthium like that, no one except. . .

In her haste to stand, she had accidentally kicked the baby’s crib. It only moved an inch or two to the side, but the sudden movement was enough to startle the boy, who sent up a loud wail in response.

“No, shh, shh!” Kora jumped to her feet and quickly picked him up, trying to quiet him before anyone came to check on the children. But it wasn’t the thought of being caught that terrified her. This child was a smith.

Kora bounced the baby up and down, trying to calm him as much as calm the hurricane of thoughts whirling through her mind. All children born in the citadel showed traces of their new powers at some point or another, but most manifested around the age of five or so. Only rarely did they show their powers earlier, depending on both the gift and manner of manifestation. Once Kora was accurately able to assess a child’s power, it was her job to report her findings to Skathis, just as she was supposed to report this child. _Especially_ this child. The other gods always bragged when one of their children seemed to have inherited a similar power as their parent—though it didn’t stop them from letting their leader sell them. Skathis, however, was the only one who didn’t want children like him, insisting on their immediate death.

Kora rocked the baby back and forth, his crying having lessened to a lighter whimper. Though she never liked what Skathis did to the children, killing them outright had been the one thing she hated the most; it was also the one rule to which Skathis would brook no opposition.

A thought occurred to Kora just then, a lightning quick idea that sent a tingling shiver up her spine. It was the middle of the night. She was the only one who knew of this child’s power. The servants who watched over the nursery couldn’t have known or else the baby would never have been left there for her to find in the first place. And since most children’s powers didn’t manifest until several years later, no one would even guess his power had already come through.

She could do it. She saw that very clearly now, every step of the way, every action she would take marked out plainly in her mind as if on a map. If she left now, no one would know. No one, until it was too late, until Skathis looked into the eyes of his own kin and saw his destruction.

Kora had been a coward when it came to her own son; she knew that and would live with that fact for the rest of her life. But here was a chance to do something, to take a stand against Skathis and not only save a child but potentially save all of them, all of the people in Amezrou who trembled whenever the shadow of Rasalas flew overhead. She could do it.

But she had to leave now.

 

***

 

War, or the remnants thereof, had finally reached the outskirts of Zosma. Hundreds of refugees were streaming into the city every day, all of them hefting heavy packs and pulling wagons, a few luckier ones escorting horses who’d seen better days—the only belongings of their former life as they tried to outrun death.

Down by the city entrance, two monks in threadbare robes tied only with the thinnest of twine stood handing out small bits of food to their new neighbors. The gaunt cheeks of the two men, the purple smudges lining their eyes, betrayed the truth behind their handouts’ origins, and while they smiled to each and every person who trudged past them that took a handout, their smiles were tired and beginning to droop.

One monk reached behind him to grab another bag of vegetables that he and his brothers had grown in their garden and found that it was the last one. “Brother Simon,” he called out to the older man, who had stopped to place his hands in blessing upon a passing woman with her arm in a sling. “I’m afraid we’ll have to call it an early day.”

Brother Simon turned, a questioning look on his brow, until the younger monk gestured to their empty cart. “Ah.” Brother Simon brushed his hands together and nodded. “Yes, it has been a busy one, hasn’t it. I can’t say I’m not surprised, though I regret leaving these people so early.” He ran his hands through his downy white hair, leaving some of it sticking up in tufts, and gazed around at the small corner just outside of the city’s entrance they had occupied over the past few days. “But we should congratulate ourselves on a job well done, Brother Gregorie. We have helped many of our city’s newest residents today, and we must pray that we can provide for them in the days to come.”  

Brother Gregorie sighed and tried to keep his frown from curving too far downward. He was not only the most recent novice monk to join Zemonan Abbey but also the youngest, and had volunteered to help Brother Simon hand out food that day mostly in the fear that the frail older brother wouldn’t make it back on his own. While Brother Gregorie naturally possessed the enthusiasm for life that all young men embrace and the spirit of charity burning within those newest to any vocation, he found both the sheer number of that day’s immigrants and his brother’s overabundance of optimism in the face of such spiritlessness quite fatiguing.

The wrinkles on Brother Simon’s forehead suddenly smoothed out as he began to smile. “Well, if that isn’t a miracle, then I don’t know what is.”

It was the younger man’s turn to look confused until Brother Simon pointed behind him in the distance, a small figure growing ever larger as he swam upstream against the latest tide of war refugees the city guards let past the gate.

“Ah,” Brother Simon beamed as he recognized the newcomer. “I believe it is Brother Argos. He has brought us some much needed provisions just when we needed it most.” He placed his hands together as if in prayer. “How wonderful.”

Brother Gregorie quietly sighed, secretly believing that Brother Simon would smile if a giant scorpion were to suddenly appear and crawl up the old man’s leg. Brother Argos, in Brother Gregorie’s uncharitable opinion, was not much better than a scorpion.

“Sorry it took so long.” Brother Argos did not, however, sound very sorry as he finally made his way past the city gates and unceremoniously dropped the arms of the small wooden tumbril he’d been pulling behind him. Inside the cart were several burlap sacks that rolled piteously as they were dropped. “The streets are an absolute nightmare,” Brother Argos continued. “How you two got any work done out here with those bells tolling, I cannot guess.”

“Bells, Brother?” Brother Simon looked up from his examination of the newly arrived foodstuffs.

Brother Argos’ eyes nearly bulged out of his face. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t hear them? I’ll warrant I’m nearly deaf from their noise!”

Brother Gregorie had, in fact, heard bells tolling earlier that day, but didn’t think Brother Argos would appreciate or even really want his support. Some people, he had learned, just liked to complain, and Brother Argos was no exception.

“Who in their right mind decided _today_ was a good day to hold the christening of the queen’s godson, hmm?” Brother Argos frowned, his eyes narrowing as he turned and looked back at the looming stone walls of the city. In truth, Brother Argos was much closer to Brother Gregorie’s age than anyone would care to guess, but the deep frown lines etched onto his face had early on cast a spell of old age upon the monk that refused to let go with each new frown placed upon it. As if feeling his age that day more than ever, Brother Argos rubbed his lower back, made a scoffing noise, and waved his right hand in a dismissive motion, as if writing off the whole kingdom entirely.

Brother Gregorie cocked his head to the side. “I didn’t realize the queen had a grandson.”

“No, her godson,” Brother Argos corrected him. He reached behind him to begin unloading his cart and found that Brother Simon had quietly already done so. He sighed and frowned again, and merely pushed the cart back against the large tree casting shade over the three of them. “The Duke of Vaal’s second son.” Brother Argos cracked a rare smile. “Wouldn’t want to be his first son now. _He_ didn’t get the queen as his godmother, that’s for sure.” And then, to the surprise of both monks, Brother Argos chuckled. “Do you know what they named him? Couldn’t help but hear the publicizers screaming it through the streets as I made my way here.” He didn’t wait for the others to even hazard a guess before he answered himself. “ _Thyon_. Named him after some warrior-saint that went after all those barbarians who used to live here in the way back.”

“A saint who fights for goodness in the name of the gods seems to be a fine choice.” Brother Gregorie gambled.

And lost. His only reward was another dismissive wave from Brother Argos. “It’s a rich child’s name,” he scoffed. What Brother Argos didn’t tell his brothers, however, was that he was rather fond of the name Thyon. After being placed in charge of naming all the orphans their abbey was now accruing with some alarm, Brother Argos wished he had thought of that name first.

“A rich child who will want for nothing while more than half our city goes hungry and homeless because some men out there think _they’re_ fighting for goodness in the name of gods and queen.”

If it was rare to witness a smile or chuckle from Brother Argos, it was rarer still to see Brother Simon frown, but frown he did at the other monk. “Brother Argos, I’d say you’re judging quite a bit in place of the gods today, wouldn’t you?”

Brother Argos at least had the decency to look chagrined. “Well, it’s not right, you know,” he grumbled, grabbing another little sack of provisions to hand to the next family that just arrived. “They shouldn’t be celebrating on a day like this, not when so many people are in need, and there they sit on their golden thrones, wearing their jewel-encrusted crowns, eating roast chicken and eel pie and—and ginger-glazed ham and cake and—”  The monk had to stop when his mouth filled up with saliva. He looked despairingly down at the two withered apples in his hand as if he could magically turn them into a roast chicken and eel pie. “It really isn’t right.”

Brother Simon sighed and offered him a gentle smile. “Perhaps they will share with us in due time, but we cannot deny them the reason for the celebration today, can we? A child is the most precious gift we can give to the world, and if we cannot find joy in life and living, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

“Oh, aye, children are wonderful. They’re so wonderful that we’ve taken on another five this morning alone! Someone dumped a cart at our doorstep shortly after you two left. Woke up Brother Cyrus.” Brother Argos shook his head in remembrance. “Had no need for Terce this morning with all their wailing.”

Brother Gregorie couldn’t help but laugh in sympathy, having found himself more times than he cared to count on the receiving end of one of Brother Cyrus’ tirades.

Brother Simon watched Brother Argos carefully for a moment before walking over to the younger man and placing his hand on Brother Argos’ shoulder. “Are you all right today, Brother? You’re not usually this. . .”

“Vocal?” supplied Brother Gregorie.

“Just so.” Brother Simon smiled at him before turning back to the other monk, whose shoulders had sagged in despair.

“To be honest, Brother Simon, it has not been a good day. The city is a mess, and. . . well, I didn’t want to worry you, but I was robbed on the way here.” He gestured to the few burlap sacks he had brought with him that already sat mostly empty on the ground. “They dropped those when I gave chase or else I wouldn’t have come at all.” He screwed his mouth up in displeasure, as if he had just sucked a particularly sour lemon. “Honestly, who’d steal from a monk?

Brother Simon took a deep breath and clapped Brother Argos on the back. “Only those most in need, Brother. Which is why we must continue to do what we do in the hope that our goodness and charity will be passed along.”

“Well, here’s some good news then.” Brother Gregorie turned from his examination of Brother Argos’ tumbril that still sat beneath the large tree behind them. “It looks like there’s still another bag of food in there.” He pointed at the corner of the cart where a small piece of burlap stuck out from between the thin wooden bars.

The three of stepped over to the cart to see what kind of food they had left to distribute, Brother Argos pushing past them to reach the cart first. If possible, his shoulders slumped even further. “Not again,” they heard him grumble.

To their surprise, Brothers Gregorie and Simon found not food but a small baby laying down on top of a leftover sack. “We’ve been here the whole time,” Brother Gregorie exclaimed with wide eyes. “How did anyone do this without us noticing?”

Even Brother Simon seemed at a loss, unable to utter any of his platitudes about hope or helpfulness. Instead, he merely nodded solemnly and said, “Perhaps it is time we head back, Brothers.”

For all his talk about too many children in the abbey, Brother Argos’ face was lined with worry as he ignored his brothers and gazed down at the silent baby. “He’s not crying. Or making any noise, really,” he murmured to himself before looking up at the others. “Does he look gray to you?”

 

***

 

Despite her desire to keep still and not startle Nova, Sarai couldn’t help but glance over at Lazlo, his cage too small and cramped for his long body. Nova, noticing her distracted gaze, followed her line of sight and then grimaced as she took in the spectacle before her and understood all that she had wrought. She quickly snapped her wrist and opened the time loop that surrounded her companions Kiska and Rook. They fell to the floor and attempted to stand, shaking their heads from vertigo. Just past them, the giant mesarthium serpent yawned, its jaw unhinging and tongue flicking out just once as Werran rolled out of its mouth. Once Werran hit the floor, the snake flopped to the ground in a violent convulsion before coiling in on itself and disappearing back into the smooth mesarthium floor.

And Lazlo. Lazlo was last.

Nova momentarily forgotten, Sarai rushed to Lazlo’s side as his cage both grew in size and melted away, releasing him gently into her arms. His face was contorted in pain, his limbs stiff and unmoving from being kept so long in Nova’s too small enclosure. Despite the pain, he tried to lift his hand to Sarai’s cheek, to touch her once more, and Sarai helped, bringing her face to his and kissing his wonderfully crooked nose.

“You’re still here,” he croaked. His hand gently caressed her face, his touch careful and reverent, and Sarai realized then that he thought she had evanesced. “Are you all right?”

Who needed the moon or fireflies in a jar when one had Lazlo’s eyes, shining up at her with all the love and light in the world? Suddenly, Sarai was laughing and crying as she helped Lazlo to stand, and he was laughing and crying too, and the moths that were both her and inside of her fluttered against her hearts from sweet relief and happiness.

Nearby, Werran was being supported by Rook and Kiska as they helped their friend to stand. He was taking giant gulps of air, wincing in discomfort and clutching his sides. Every few seconds, the three of them would glance over at Sarai and Lazlo and then at the others crouched beneath the archway. Nova hadn’t told them what to do yet, but it was also Nova who had hurt them, and it was clear that they too were unsure of how to proceed. Sarai wondered how they would act now and if they would wait again for one of Nova’s command.

Nova herself stood off to the side, looking utterly alone and completely unlike the furiously powerful assailant they had fought just a short time ago. Ever the warrior, Tzara still hadn’t lowered her bow, however, nor did anyone else seem anywhere near relaxed now that Nova had let Lazlo and the others go. The main group, still huddled under the archway, glanced back and forth between Nova and the others, wondering too just who was going to make the first move.

In the end, it was Nova. Her gaze, upon ending the time loop, had never wavered—but not on Sarai or Lazlo, or even her companions. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon the small group in the doorway. Still clutched within Lazlo’s tight grasp, Sarai vaguely wondered speculated on the idea that it was because she had not known there would be children left in the citadel, her thoughts and purpose focused solely on her sister. But then Nova exhaled sharply and clasped her hands over her chest.

She murmured something, and then said it again, but her words did not make sense. They were no longer in her dream, and Sarai could no longer hear her translated words. She looked up towards the others and saw that all three of Nova’s companions wore varying expressions of confusion. Eventually, Kiska looked over at her, and Sarai heard the young woman’s voice in her head, as if she were afraid to speak aloud and break whatever spell of goodwill—or at least, neutrality—had been cast over their leader.

_She said, ‘Oh, he looks just like her. He looks just like her.’_

And before anyone could even guess at her words’ meaning, Nova turned suddenly and walked outside.

Sarai took a small step forward, bringing Lazlo with her as she still supported him, and took a better look at her group of friends. Suddenly, Sarai knew what Nova meant. She hadn’t understood at the time, but she knew now.

The dawning realization of both Kora’s whispered words and Nova’s soft announcement spread through Sarai like icy cracks across a frozen pond. Thoughts skittered and jerked around her head, stilted and half-formed, until she felt it—

Sarai could scream moths into the world, she had friends who could steal lightning from the sky, grow plants from seeds in a matter of seconds, friends who could ignite themselves into a bonfire and harness the dead to their will.

But that was everyday life for her. It took much more to surprise someone whose normal included the ability to walk through dreamscapes and conjure nightmares. This, however? This was a surprise in every sense of the word, another surprise in a week of surprises that included meeting her father and dying (and not necessarily in that order).

—the sudden comprehension in that moment that Kora, the goddess Korako, had a son. And he was standing in their midst.

 

***

 

It was amazing how certain memories and details can be recalled in times of stress or unrest. As if the mind was trying to protect you with a distraction from the impossible task set before you, the looming deadline you were sure not to meet. In other cases, sometimes the situation was so implausible, so disquieting that the mind could only focus on the specific item or event causing said stress, eliminating all other diversions entirely.

Thyon Nero could only breathe slowly out through his nostrils as his own mind, to his agitation, employed the former strategy. All he could suddenly think about, despite the confrontation before him, despite the sheer levels of magic and power being employed both to save and harm his fellow companions, was a conversation he had recently had with Lazlo Strange about his scientific work. A small part of him knew it was completely selfish to be thinking about himself at a time like this, but something was happening, something important was unfolding before them, that served to recall this past conversation.

 _It’s the skeleton key that unlocks every door,_ he had said about azoth.

 _And you’re unlocking the doors,_ Lazlo had replied.

 _Yes, I am. Not all of them, not yet. It’s the work of a lifetime—the Great Work._ My _great work, Strange. I’m not some gold maker to spend my days filling a queen’s coin purse. I am unlocking the mysteries of the world, one by one, and I haven’t come across a lock yet, so to speak, that my key will not fit. The world is my house. I am its master. Azoth is my key._

It was as if, by remembering this conversation, by letting it loop endlessly through his mind on repeat like the scene before them would loop until that woman was defeated, his mind was telling him that this newest occurrence, this unexpected development that was playing out before them was his fault. That he had asked for it. And, in a roundabout way, he had.

That was the problem with making wishes. It reminded Thyon of the fairy tales in the books he had taken from Strange. Someone would encounter a djinn or spirit of the forest who would offer to grant them their heart’s desire. The person would get their wish, but not in the way they expected. Someone would wish for money and arrive home to find their house full of coins but empty of all other items. Or else their true love would finally reciprocate their feelings only to fall prey to a deadly disease soon after.

When it came to wishes, one had to be specific. Set boundaries. Identify the parameters of the wish’s beginning and end. If not, well then, it was only natural for the djinns and spirits to have some fun.

Thyon Nero had desperately wanted to unlock the mysteries of the world, had always wished to BE the story told, to have the attention focused on him. Everyone knew who he was, of course: son of the Duke of Vaal, godson of the queen, and—most importantly—the only person to have distilled azoth and transmuted materials into gold. He was well on his way toward achieving the fame and attention he felt he deserved out of life, more than ready to _be_ the story.

But it wasn’t truly his story, not really. He obviously played a part in it, and had definitely been the one to distill the azoth in the first place, but it hadn’t been his idea. He had felt, when Strange came to him with _Miracles for Breakfast_ , a shift in the universe, a slight slipping in the tight grasp with which he held his wish. Regardless of Strange’s intentions, that had been the first time he had ever considered the possibility that other people might have their own stories, that he—of all people!—might just be a secondary character in someone else’s life. He refused to believe it.

And then suddenly Strange had not only engineered his way into the group traveling to Weep but made himself indispensable as Eril-Fane’s secretary. He not only correctly guessed at the problem of Weep, but he could suddenly move and manipulate that strange metal mesarthium when no one else could. Things had happened—and happened fast—that were _not_ happening to Thyon Nero.

Thyon himself had tried working on the blue metal from the start, attempting to claw his way back up to the pedestal Strange had somehow accidentally kicked from under him. He worked tirelessly at breaking, striking, cutting, and burning the metal. He had used up so much of his own precious spirit in the desperate hope that azoth could transmute the metal into _something_ , that perhaps the alkahest would dissolve the material _now_ on the _forty-seventh_ time as it had not on the previous forty-six attempts, that he was in danger of losing his spirit completely. There were no djinn here; Thyon would have to make his own wish come true the hard way.

And then Strange once again stepped in and took over, offering his own spirit instead, and that was when everything changed for good. It was the end of the hallway, the final door slamming in his face, the click of the lock echoing in the emptiness. He had meant to unlock the mysteries of the world, and instead, found not only Strange doing it instead, but locking him out in the process.

It was a reordering of the entire universe, to suddenly learn that one was not the center, that people had never been looking at you but past you, at the true center, all along.

But still Thyon wished. He could not help himself. He could not have worked so hard for so long not to have _something_ happen. And so, having invited himself aboard the citadel on a trip to another world, one last attempt to create a story for himself, Thyon once again began to think about his work on understanding the strange element of mesarthium.

So far, the only knowable fact about it, the one absolute truth, was that those with powers had to be in constant contact with it in order for said powers to work. As a scientist, Thyon always wore gloves when attempting experiments in his various laboratories. It not only protected him but also kept whatever materials he happened to be working with from being compromised by outside variables such as the natural oils from one’s skin. But the citadel was unique in that it was made entirely of mesarthium. Having an unlimited amount of material to work with and experiment on was every scientist’s dream. For Thyon, who needed gold when one had mesarthium? (The answer, of course, was also Thyon. He very much planned on conquering mesarthium by turning it too into gold.)

It was an established fact of fairy tales that wishes always came true, no matter how unexpected the means or outcome. Thyon had made a wish, a wish that encompassed his entire being until it wrapped around him like a second skin and became like a second soul inside him. One could not differentiate where Thyon ended and the wish began; they were one and the same.

Regular wishes were one thing. If one didn’t have access to magical beings, one could still theoretically make their wish come true through hard work and determination.

But when someone like Thyon, for instance, wished for something with both of their hearts, spent their whole life working towards that wish, changing their entire being so that all wants and desires become entangled, until all dreams are singularly focused, until nothing matters but obtaining that wish. . .

Well, the universe listens.

In Zosma, Thyon was the golden godson. In Weep, he was just another faranji, his only noticeable feature the fact that he was the only unnoticeable person in the midst of thieves, warriors, and the magical children of gods. Once aboard the citadel, theoretically, he could be anyone.

But that was the problem with making wishes. Thyon had spent as much energy on wanting to be his own story as he did his own spirit for azoth that he forgot the one rule when it came to wishes. It was understandable that he’d forget this rule, after all. He had left all of Strange’s books back in Zosma, and, with everything going on, with his mind otherwise diverted, he had simply forgot. Thyon would get his wish, there was no doubt about that. He had made a wish, and the universe had listened. But the rules still held regardless.

Thyon Nero forgot to be specific.

 

***

 

A ripple of awareness, of understanding, seemed to careen through Sarai as she comprehended the implications of this newfound knowledge.

Nova, on the other hand, remained seemingly unaware of everyone else’s presence. Sarai saw her turn, moving slowly, her gaze unfixed, and take a step toward the arcade. There were a half-dozen open archways, Minya and the others occupying the one in the center. With one more glance back at the group, Nova went around them to the exit on the right. Sarai made sure Lazlo’s legs were better, and she quickly pulled him after her to follow Nova outside.

Nova had gone straight up to balustrade at the edge of the garden, letting her hands lightly rest against the railing. A strong breeze swept up from the red ocean below, blowing her blonde hair behind her in billowing waves. She spoke, but it was not until Kiska took a half step forward, standing just on the periphery of Sarai’s vision, that her words were understood.

 _It was all for nothing,_ Kiska said, the words automatically filling Sarai’s mind. _She says the sea tried to warn her. She didn’t listen_.

“The sea?” Sarai took another step forward.

To her surprise, Nova answered, Kiska’s translation coming immediately after. _It always knew_.

“How could it have known?” Sarai asked gently. She thought of Kora, and the impossibility that the Goddess of Secrets could have kept the greatest secret of them all. From the way Minya and Eril-Fane had talked about her, Kora only associated with children when it came time for testing them, Sarai always assuming that she just didn’t want any children of her own.

Nova looked back at them over her shoulder and gave Sarai a quiet smile. She was no longer crying and indeed looked calmer now than she had at any other moment so far.

 _The sea_ , Kiska said. _The sea always knew my name._

Nova looked back down at the roiling sea below. _It’s not the same sea, but I am not the same now either._ Her spoken words were soft, but the wind had died down, and Sarai could just hear her voice, along with Kiska’s, over the sound of the crashing waves below. _Kora was, though. She was always so good. Too good—for me, for the world._

Sarai watched as Nova inhaled deeply, her shoulders moving slowly up and then down. _Nothing I did was ever good enough. And nothing I could do will ever be good enough for him._

And then Nova placed her hands once more upon the balustrade. First it was there. And then it wasn’t. Sarai realized with a start that, while Nova had released the gifts of her crew, she had not yet given up Lazlo’s gift. Her gaze met Sarai’s, and Kiska’s voice filled her head for the last time.

 _She was right. The ugliness should end_. _For her. And for him._

When Sarai realized what Nova was going to do, she lurched forward, her arm outstretched. But she was too late.

Nova leaned back.

And fell.

 

***

 

Once upon a time, a sister wrote a letter, the only way she could use her voice in a world that insisted she be quiet. But she never received a reply and, in the end, she lost her voice anyway.

Once upon a time, a woman saved a child because she could not save her own.

Once upon a time, a bird appeared and dropped some kimril tubers, and the garden and children were waiting. But it was not the right garden—it was not _her_ garden and they were not _her_ children—but dropping them felt like freedom, like dropping away a version of herself she never was but always had been, and as she flew away, she took her first full breath in centuries.  

It was just a shame that all her hard work wasn’t enough to bring back the one person she would have liked to see again before the end.

Or maybe it was.

The ones who know are no longer with us, and the ones who are with us don’t know.

_Yet._

 

***

 

Thyon tried to recall the many instances over the past week in which he had touched the mesarthium. Many times, more times than he could count in his quest to find some way to bend or break that impenetrable metal. But, as with most of his experiments, he had worn gloves when attempting to use his alkahest against the blue anchor.

If he were to count the times he had not used gloves, well, then the instances rapidly diminished. He recalled handing the small piece of mesarthium to Strange, the piece which had finally broken off once he had made the switch to the librarian-infused liquid. He must have taken it back before leaving Strange’s room, however, because he later handed it over to that little girl, Minya.

Two instances in which his bare palm had clutched the small shard of metal. Barely enough time to cause a reaction, if indeed it would have caused one. And Thyon had been fairly certain it wouldn’t—until now.

Strange, as a manipulator of that metal—a _smith_ they called him—hadn’t needed much time spent in contact with it before it had turned his skin gray and then blue. The others, as he had watched in the amphitheater, had taken a little longer, longer to turn gray and then brown, and then the same amount to turn back.

All he had done, standing at the back of the group, was lean against one of the columns. His shirt sleeves still rolled up from the exertions of their earlier book-collecting, the only part of his skin that touched the wall ran from his elbow to sleeve. Not quite three square inches. Possibly a total of twenty minutes. Handing over a piece of the metal to someone wasn’t enough time for a reaction.

But it seemed that twenty minutes, for him at least, was plenty of time.

It spoke to how intense the situation with Nova and Sarai was that no one noticed their fellow companion turning blue in the back of the group. No one, until Thyon’s shock and voice betrayed him as he stood there, staring blankly at his fingers.

“Huh.”

Such a small syllable, such a wealth of emotions behind it.

And that was when Ruza noticed.

If the others hadn’t heard Thyon’s small exclamation, they certainly heard Ruza’s curse as he swore creatively in surprise at the sight of the color blue swiftly enveloping the gray of his friend’s palms. It made quick progress up his arms and disappeared past his shirt sleeves until every visible piece of skin had been colored in.

The two young men who had arrived with Nova were still recovering from her traps and didn’t seem all that shocked at his appearance. Everyone else, however, encircled him sporting various degrees of surprised and confused expressions. Thyon has always wanted attention, had grown up believing it was only natural that others would notice who he was and pay close attention to what he did. But this—this was different.

This was the shock of bafflement, of skepticism, of incredulity. Thyon discovered rather belatedly that there were both good and bad kinds of attention, and this was not the good kind.

“First Lazlo, now him! Who’s next!” Someone muttered.

“Did you know?” Someone else whispered.

“No! How would I know this?”

“Did _you_ know?” This repeated question was now directed at Thyon himself, but he kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to throw a dark glare at the surrounding group before straightening his shoulders and yanking his sleeve down past his elbow. Now that he wasn’t touching the column, no part of his skin remained in contact with the mesarthium. He looked down at his hands and tried to will the color away. If he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, maybe—possibly—his skin would no longer be blue. Regular. Normal.

But as he looked up to find two Tizerkane warriors, a girl who claimed she was descended from spiders, and a handful of other blue people continuing to stare wide-eyed back at him, Thyon once again questioned the existence of “normal.”

 

***

 

Sarai, Lazlo, and Kiska returned without Nova to find the mood of the group entirely changed. Sarai stumbled as she walked, clutching at Lazlo for support, only half-aware of her surroundings after watching Nova plummet into the hostile ocean below. Lazlo too held onto her with a tightness she found reassuring, he only half-understanding what—and who—Nova had talked about. Kiska followed close behind, completely silent now that her translations were no longer needed.

Re-entering the archway, they found everyone gathered together, their voices much louder than the scene seemed to call for. Rook was still supporting Werran, but no one was directing their words towards them. Even Tzara, they saw, had lowered her bow. No, the commotion was not an argument or even another battle, and soon a gap in the crowd showed them what had caused the raising of voices.

Lazlo’s mouth dropped open, his eyes blinking rapidly as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. Sarai was still having a hard time herself, though she imagined Lazlo’s difficulty in accepting what was before him had more to do with the man in question than his knowledge, or lack thereof, about Kora.

Sarai, feeling an overwhelming surge of love for the man beside her, pulled him close and quickly related what she had learned while in Nova’s dream, including Kora's part in saving Lazlo. When she finished, he glanced again at Thyon, who now stood off to the side with his sleeves lengthened, glaring at anyone who would dare another look.

“I always wondered. . .” Lazlo began, his voice quickly trailing off.

Sarai cupped her hand against his cheek. When he did not speak again, she said, “Wondered what, my love?”

He shrugged. “Wondered why Zosma. Out of all the places in the world, why did she bring me to Zosma?” He threw another quick glance over his shoulder before smiling down at Sarai. “I suppose it’s funny, if you think about. Well, _he_ might not think it’s funny,” he said with a chuckle. “But I was brought to Zosma because of him, and he came here because of me.”

And all of it had brought them—had brought Lazlo—to her.

Sarai looked around at the diverse group before her: children and adults, defenders and combatants, human and godspawn. All brought together, for good or bad, because of the gods. Sarai felt a longing within her, an ache in her hearts for a place that would fit them all. A place where Sparrow could garden in the sun, a place where Minya could sleep without fear of her own ghosts. A place where the children of gods could mix freely with the citizens of Weep and not fear the snap of a bow or strike of a hreshtek. It was all a dream, a nice dream, but a dream nonetheless. She was reminded then of Lazlo’s version of Weep, another dream but one of their own creation, one they shaped to their own desires until they found a place worth preserving, even if it was only temporary.

And maybe they’d never find that perfect version of Weep, and maybe they’d never come to terms with everything Skathis caused. But knowing that they could, that they might reshape their futures as Lazlo could reshape mesarthium—wouldn’t believing in the possibility of creating a new home make every attempt in the meantime worthwhile?

Home wasn’t just a place, it was a feeling. A feeling of comfort, a sense of belonging, the knowledge that one was exactly where one ought to be.

Sarai found then that the only thing she could say, after a day full of revelations, heartache, and loss, was, “Oh, Lazlo, let’s go home.”

 

***

 

Up until Nova arrived, home for many in the group had been the citadel. Broken and bent into a shape of someone else’s making, tainted with bad memories old and new, home was not somewhere any of them were able to return to right away.

But not for lack of trying on a certain former junior librarian’s part.  

With the knowledge gained from Kiska, Werran, and Rook about their travels through many different worlds, and armed with the awareness that there might be many more children of gods out there than they had previously imagined, it didn’t take anyone long to decide what their new purpose might be.

But a new purpose required a new home, and so it took them several weeks to make preparations for their new adventure in the newly re-christened _Astral_. Not wanting to bring the giant ship back to Amezrou for fear of terrifying the residents yet again, they opted instead for using the silk sleighs in which they had come to Var Elient in the first place. Larger items, such as cases of food and some of Thyon’s lab equipment, were ferried in on either of the two wasp ships found inside at the heart of the citadel, though Lazlo had refashioned those too in the small chance that someone might also remember them.

Lazlo spent much of his time reshaping the _Astral_ so that it no longer looked like or reminded anyone of the old gods’ former home. Thyon too spent most of his time aboard, sequestered in his brand new alchemical laboratory. Try as he might, he could not seem to unpack both his equipment and the many thoughts about what had happened to him aboard the old citadel at the same time. The trips back into town were necessary given all of the things he had left behind, but since he could not yet bring himself to speak of the matter on everyone’s minds, each expedition back and forth was uncomfortable and full of awkward silences.

He tried to distract himself by going over his past experiments with mesarthium and coming up with a list of new ones. Given the sheer amount of mesarthium available to him now, it wouldn’t be hard to stay busy, though he told himself the extra pairs of gloves he made sure to purchase in town were simply a means of keeping to the rules of laboratory safety and nothing else.

The blue metal, he concluded early on, was essentially a conductor of magic, or “special abilities” as he preferred to think of them. If one wanted to access or use their special ability, they needed to be touching the mesarthium in order for anything to come of it. Even fabric as thin as expensive silk cloth prevented the mesarthium from working so it absolutely had to be contact on skin. In addition to allowing the person to use their special abilities, it had the further side effect of turning the person blue. Whether the skin became blue because the metal itself was blue or simply as a reaction to the metal which happened to yield skin the same color, he had yet to determine. But Thyon was quite confident that his earliest assessments of the metal were correct.

During the rare times when Thyon did leave his lab, he found that food had often been left at his door. There were no servants aboard the _Astral_ —everyone was quite emphatic on that point—so he was naturally left to conclude that either Strange or the others were doing it instead. He was used to servants doing so back in Zosma and had even appropriated a few to keep to the same schedule in Weep (Amezrou, he had to keep correcting himself), but the fact that Strange and the others aboard were doing so not out of obligation but because they wanted to sat badly on him, though he could not explain why. And despite the fact that they continued to leave him food, he was forced to leave the laboratory at least once a day for sleep. That must have been Strange too, he concluded. Only he would have placed the new lab was as far away as possible from the bedrooms in order to make sure Thyon didn’t spend all his time working. But for all that he needed his sleep, Thyon quickly fell back into his habit of long hours, unpacking and rearranging all of his items in their exact places and preparing for the start of new experiments.

The other reason he kept mostly to his laboratory, though he wouldn’t admit this out loud, was because he did not feel up to the task of facing the others with their stares and whispers. Once, in a different world, in a different life, people often talked about him, lauding his accomplishments and singing his praises. It was an everyday occurrence for people on the street to stop and stare. His entire life was on display and well-known to every citizen in Zosma. But with this new information, this new revelation into a past he didn’t even know he had, the whispers here were not of awe but of bafflement, surprise. They had questions and for once, Thyon didn’t have the answers. That did not sit well with him either. 

It was during those early days of reordering rooms and gathering supplies that Thyon heard a set of voices murmuring just outside his laboratory door.

“If he opens the door while you’re doing that, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” It was definitely a woman’s voice, but of a lower register. Tzara, then.

“Well, if you had told Lazlo to get him out of there like I asked, I wouldn’t need to be doing this in the first place.” Thyon sighed. Calixte. He had half a mind to step into the hallway and see what exactly she was doing but thought better of it. With his luck, he’d open the door to find her trying to scale it with her glue grips. And since this was Calixte, she’d probably be upside down. Thyon went back to unpacking a box containing pieces for a distillation apparatus but kept his ear open lest they actually try to knock.

“You know I’m not going to ask Lazlo to physically drag him out of there. He’ll come out when he wants to.”

“But what—”

But whatever Calixte was going to suggest was abruptly cut off by another voice. “Is something wrong?” Slightly higher pitch. From the sound of it, Thyon guessed it was Sparrow. A quiet enough girl, based on his observations, but she seemed kind.

“We should just leave him alone,” Sparrow was saying. “He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

“But he hardly ever leaves that room! Aren’t you the least bit curious about what he can do?” It took considerable strength of will for Thyon not to groan out loud. How many more of them were going to congregate outside his door? It was a veritable fete in the foyer! If Strange showed up, Thyon was going to demand a bed in his lab and just never leave again. “Standing around here isn’t going to accomplish anything. I think we should just knock and ask him.”

That new voice, he knew, belonged to Ruby. She was the one who’d been throwing looks his way anytime they crossed paths, smiling, batting her eyelashes. She’d even gone so far once as to wink at him. Thyon knew he was good-looking, had grown up knowing that, but he wasn’t so self-obsessed as to think she was after him specifically. Ruby liked to look at all of them, but Thyon had looked too, and Thyon had seen. She had winked and blushed at all the young men aboard, most often—he had come to observe—when the boy Feral was nearby. Whether the two of them would eventually come to blows or end up sharing a bedroom, Thyon didn’t know and didn’t particularly care enough to speculate on.

He did, however, wonder how long it would take them to go away if he didn’t answer the door.

“And then what? You think batting your pretty eyes at him will get him to talk?” A fifth voice. Now Feral was there. Thyon resolved to move his bed to the lab that evening.

Ruby giggled. “It might. . . Do you really think my eyes are pretty?”

Despite Thyon’s indifference to the dramatics of hormonal teenagers, it was in a way interesting to observe their strange relationship compared to that of Lazlo Strange and Sarai. Not that Thyon had much experience with relationships on which to base his observations. But neither Lazlo nor Sarai were as coy in their glances as the other two, constantly near each other, always needing to be touching the other one, whether it was holding hands, leaning against each other, or even sometimes a spontaneous kiss upon the temple. 

And their glances. Sometimes shy, often bold, and occasionally filled with something else, a deeper sort of longing that forced Thyon to look away. Having spent his life in various classrooms and laboratories, Thyon had no experience with relationships period, no evidence on hand that said, _This. This is what a relationship is._ The queen’s husband had died before he was born, and he had been told that the woman he thought was his mother, the duke’s wife, had died in childbirth.

It made him uncomfortable. Emotions—and the people displaying them—made him uncomfortable. They made people erratic and unreliable. Emotions could allow one to finally destroy one’s captors when a loved one begins to scream. Emotions could allow one to manipulate impenetrable metal in order to lay a loved one to rest at home. Emotions could allow one to donate their own spirit in an attempt to help without expecting anything in return. And emotions could even allow someone to save a stranger’s child because they could not save their own.

He was still having trouble coming to terms with all he had learned that fateful day in the citadel, and perhaps he was spending more time observing those around him in order to ignore thinking about himself. But there were a lot of new people around him, and it was nearly impossible not to observe his new traveling companions, or at the very least, overhear their conversations. Unfortunately, being confined in such close quarters as they were did not make for the best observational conditions. The more people placed in a smaller space often elevated any emotions, tempers, and hormones present—Thyon had participated in enough academic debates to understand this was not theory but mere fact—but it did not stop him from wishing for a more controlled, well, control group. Ones less prone to arguments (Ruby and Feral), unpredictable outbursts (Minya), and loud whispers (everyone, see: today) all of which seemed to occur right outside his door.

He knew they were all concerned about his behavior, hiding away as he was in the alchemical laboratory Lazlo had created for him. He had looked and he had seen their worried glances when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. But that just proved how much they didn’t know him: Thyon was always paying attention. Just as he paid attention when he caught Ruza more than the others glancing at him, his eyes darting away when Thyon caught him looking.

Ruza’s glances, more than anyone, intrigued him, for what could the warrior possibly be thinking about in regards to him? There was worry there, confusion too, and something else that Thyon couldn’t place. It wasn’t like anything found in the looks of Ruby or Feral, but it didn’t strike him as anything found in the gazes of Lazlo and Sarai either. It was something as yet uncategorized, a different species of look, but no less related to the genus of looks belonging to the others.

He told himself he only watched Ruza more than the others simply so he could attempt to discover that unknown element in the young man’s eyes. He told himself it was simply another way of trying to understand and observe in action the incalculable number of emotions that people possessed, though it didn’t stop him from also observing the young man’s eyelashes and the way the colors of the glavelights danced across his hands.

It was usually at that point that Thyon would find some place to sequester himself, feeling emotions unaccountably like affection and something else, something he could not name, that left his hands and knees shaking as he hurried to lock the door behind him. He would remind himself, when he could catch his breath, that all his previous time spent concentrating on conquering mesarthium had put him behind in his other studies. Most notably, he wanted to restart on his work with azoth in addition to the new possibility of trying to turn mesarthium into gold.

Thyon tapped his fingers on his desktop, so deep in thought about absolutely everything that it took him a few moments to realize the sound he was hearing was silence. The voices outside had thankfully, mercifully, receded. He had wanted to make an early start that day, spirit taking some time to heat to the correct temperature and he had yet to unpack the correct needles and flasks, but something Ruby had said snagged in his mind, refusing to untangle until he spent some time examining it.

 

***

 

Eventually, all supplies were brought on board, and the time for a final farewell could no longer be put off. The time the group had set for their departure came upon them faster than they anticipated, and a few members were having a harder time than others saying goodbye.

Thyon, for his part, had not spent enough time out in the city to have anyone to say goodbye to; with the exception of Eril-Fane and Azareen, everyone he knew would be going along with him. He knew he should at least thank Eril-Fane for the opportunity the man had given him in allowing him to venture to Amezrou in the first place, but the curious looks the warrior kept throwing his way held him back. He knew the others would have related the story of everything that happened aboard the citadel to the couple who chose to stay, and it was not a stretch to imagine that they must have been told about his own discovery as well. After a moment’s consideration, Thyon realized he wasn’t mad about it. In fact, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything about it just yet. The whole incident felt distant, and now that his skin was back to the same color it had always been, Thyon felt blank, emotionally unattached. It was, he reflected as he watched the others give tearful farewells, probably not the healthiest reaction, and he would think more about it. But not now. Maybe later.

He also felt oddly unaffected by the fact that the group would not only be leaving Amezrou but the world of Zeru completely. He had long since said his farewells back in Zosma, and the idea that he might never be back didn’t bother him in the slightest. Though given his relationship with his father—and the fact that the man wasn’t his real father in the first place—there didn’t seem much left to go back to should he ever want to anyway.

But there was something he wanted to say to one person there, and knowing how busy Lazlo had been lately, the middle of a large group where their discussion might not be noticed was as good a time as any.

Lazlo, as if sensing Thyon’s presence behind him, turned around and smiled. “Well?” He said, shrugging. “Are you ready for this?”

Thyon had not been ready for the giant grin Lazlo threw his way. “The last of my things have been brought to my new laboratory,” he replied stiffly. “Setting it up may take some time, however.”

Lazlo laughed. “And you already know what experiments you’ll start with, am I right?”

Thyon had actually been keeping a list which currently sat in his left pocket, but he wasn’t about to mention that to Lazlo. “I intend to study a great many things. Wherever we go might be filled with any number of curious specimens, even new varieties of magic.” He left out his desire to continue his research into mesarthium, thoroughly examining any and all qualities and applications of the element. That would have led down a road of conversations he wasn’t quite ready to enter yet.

Lazlo, thankfully, didn’t mention it either, instead scoffing and saying, “You could just as soon as turn lead into gold as understand the science behind magic.”

Thyon knew Lazlo was teasing him, had observed the glint in his eye, the slight curve at the edge of his mouth, and so responded dryly, “Well then, it’s a good thing I’m already halfway there.”

Lazlo gave him another smile before it quickly dropped from his face, and his fingers tapped nervously against his thigh. “This isn’t going to be the Elmuthaleth, you know.”

Thyon looked up sharply at Lazlo’s sudden change in tone, and Lazlo seemed to hesitate a moment before continuing. “We’ll all be faranji out there, but this time there won’t be a guide to help us. None of us know what’s out there. Anywhere,” he added, cocking his head to the side, as if only just considering this information himself. “We’ll be dealing with a lot of new things, a lot of new places and adventures. That can be overwhelming for a lot of people. It would be. . .” Lazlo glanced away. “No one would think twice if someone backed out. Even at the last minute. I mean—” Lazlo shrugged again. “We’re the first faranji to visit Amezrou in two hundred years. There’s a lot to learn in just this city alone. I’m sure they won’t say no to an offer of help in building and reinstating their own library and university.”

Thyon puzzled over Lazlo’s words before quickly realizing what he was doing: giving him an easy out. There had been so much that happened in such a short amount of time—a lot that had happened to Thyon—that Lazlo was providing him with an excuse to stay back and figure things out. And while the idea of working on and possibly helping to lead Amezrou’s new university was incredibly tempting, it was one he found he could easily pass on.

“And let you come back the hero?” Thyon shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “I said to you once that stories would be told about me, Lazlo, and I intend to see that happen. After all, Amezrou is just one city. I intend to conquer worlds.”

Lazlo was acting his usual self, being nice and offering him help all because it was the right thing to do. Having grown up in a world of fawning courtiers, Thyon was still getting used to people being nice for the sake of being nice, but even harder than accepting that behavior in others was training himself to react in a similar manner. So he settled into _his_ usual self which, while familiar, seemed to sit more and more uncomfortably upon his shoulders, and hoped that Lazlo could understand his language as much as Thyon was trying to understand his.  

“Besides,” he added, trying to shrug nonchalantly, “there are already a series of books on this place. What kind of person would I be if I took someone else’s ideas?”

Lazlo blinked several times wordlessly, and Thyon worried that he had perhaps gone too far, that perhaps Lazlo would miss the sarcasm completely and think him serious. Although if he did, Thyon couldn’t really blame him for it.

Instead, Lazlo answered, “Well, I’ve heard imitation is often the sincerest form of flattery. You could do much worse than taking someone’s ideas. Though I’d definitely argue that taking credit for something someone else did might leave them feeling very sad, very. . . spiritless.”

Thyon’s eyes widened and he looked away before Lazlo could see the half-smile on his face. “You are. . . you’re a very strange man, Lazlo.” And before Thyon could stop himself, he held his hand out to the other young man.

After staring at him for a brief second, Lazlo reached out and shook Thyon’s hand, clutching it a lot harder than Thyon had anticipated. “So I’ve been told,” he said thickly.

“So. . .” Thyon looked around, taking a moment to shake the pain away from his hand, and let his gaze roam over the rest of the group, the sky, the ground—anywhere not to meet Lazlo’s stare—until he recalled, in that instant, a particular memory from four years ago.

The service quarters of Zosma’s library was not an area someone like him could say they were familiar with, and it took him several wrong turns and scaring another apprentice from revealing the fact that he’d spotted the queen’s godson down there before he finally came across the particular room he was after. He remembered seeing the line of books on the window ledge and sneering at the thought that Lazlo might have kept them, _stolen_ them, preventing him and all the other scholars from having access. He continued to sneer until all expression dropped from his face completely when he realized Lazlo himself had written the books—and they weren’t just any books. All of them handmade, all on the subject of his precious Unseen City, covering a range of topics from language to economic theory to fairy tales. Fairy tales similar to the ones found in _Miracles for Breakfast_ , which was the primary reason for his visit. Well, that and an overwhelming urge to satisfy some unnamed sense of curiosity.

“An adventure, huh?” He said to Lazlo now. For some, all that they already experienced was a great adventure. But the promise of new worlds? New chances? This was an opportunity he could not give up.

Thyon was not proud that he had resorted to threatening Lazlo back in his room, nor was he proud in general of who he had let himself become back in Zosma, bowing to the demands of his father and whims of the queen instead of studying and exploring his own interests. He sought out Lazlo Strange in order to find some sort of resolution to their problem, to _his_ problem. He may have been the one to turn lead into gold, but Lazlo—a mere junior librarian and an orphan at that—had been the one to solve the equation. And all from a book based on fairy tales and magic.

“You promise?” he asked Lazlo. This new life, this new adventure, would be full of fairy tales and magic. And while his previous request for a promise had been made sarcastically, a mockery of Lazlo’s beliefs and the seriousness in which he took them, Thyon now appealed to him in a different manner. If Lazlo’s stories, his mere conjectures, were found to be correct, what might they do when he took serious study of  greater exploration and further worlds?

As if able to read Thyon’s mind, Lazlo nodded solemnly. “Three times,” he said. And that was another promise he knew Lazlo would keep.

Something, perhaps Sarai, caught Lazlo’s attention just then, however, and he began to turn, to step away and disappear back into the group.

“Oh, wait.” Thyon held out his arms to stop him. He couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten the reason for his approaching Lazlo in the first place. He then pulled the object out of his pack and thrust it at Lazlo. “This is yours.”

 _Miracles for Breakfast_.

A small kernel of anticipation had begun to grow within Thyon, and he realized he was looking forward to this new journey. Of course he wanted to go, he wouldn’t have asked to come otherwise, but if he and Lazlo could have their miracles for breakfast, what might he find by lunch?

 

***

 

Avalie sat in the kitchen behind her bakery storefront and slowly sipped at her mug of tea. Every so often she would glance up to make sure she hadn’t missed a customer entering, but she needn’t have bothered. Those that had evacuated the city down river to Enet-Sarra were still slowly making the move back home, though most were waiting until more of the city was hospitable again, and the inhabitants that chose to stay were either working to help them or just enjoying their time outside. Her husband Ramak was off making their usual deliveries, but pedestrian traffic had definitely slowed over the past few days. She wasn’t too concerned, however. The citadel was finally gone, and their city was greeting the sun for the first time in two hundred years.

She was just wondering if she should check on her older brother in the courtyard out back when a rumbling from above broke the peaceful silence of the afternoon. Two figures suddenly appeared, having hurled themselves down the stairwell in the opposite corner. They ran past Avalie, through the kitchen, and into the bakery out front in a thundering storm of shouts and laughter.

Avalie frowned. Normally she’d allow them their fun, but her mother was taking a nap upstairs, and her older brother was starting to worry her as well.

“Kiyan! Safan!” She called after them.

Though he was twenty-six, she sometimes thought her younger brother Kiyan had the same level of maturity as her son.

The two paused at the doorway. “. . . Yes?”

Avalie closed her eyes. Her brother could not pretend innocence to save his life. “Where are you two going?”

“. . . Out?”

Keeping her eyes closed, she counted to ten before hefting herself out of her chair. She wasn’t due to give birth for another three months, but she felt like she was ready go at any moment. Boy or girl, the baby would be a big one.

Waddling as fast as she could, she met the two noisemakers at the front door, where they stood in identical poses of wide eyes and hands clasped behind their backs.

“Your grandmother is sleeping, and your uncle is not feeling well. What is all the commotion?” She directed this question to her son, who at least had the decency to look sorry.

“Kiyan- _dayi_ said he’d take me over to the north anchor so we can watch the construction.” He looked up at her through his too-long bangs, his dark eyes wide with hope. “Please can we go? We’ll be careful, I promise.” He flashed her a big grin, which showed off his dimples, and casually brushed his hair out of his face.

Avalie pursed her lips. Her son was eight and had already learned how to get what he wanted simply by smiling. It was charming, it was adorable, it was absolutely manipulative, and she fell for it every time. Kiyan had probably coached him.

She turned towards her brother. “If anything happens to him, I will hold you down and shave that sorry excuse for a beard off your face,” she threatened.

“Hey!” Kiyan rubbed the dark, bristling hair along his cheeks. “I’ll have you know the ladies love this look.”

“Mm-hmm. And that’s why you’re spending the day with an eight-year-old, right?” She raised an eyebrow.

He glared at her, but she put her hands on her hips and glared right back.“Do not test me, Kiyan,” she said, pointing her finger in his face. “I will sit on you.”

Kiyan opened his mouth, looked down at her large belly, and then quickly closed his mouth, having thought the better of any retort he might have given her. “Fine,” he eventually said, rolling his eyes. “We’ll head over to Tamaz’s building. We can watch above from the dome.”

That made her feel a little better—Tamaz was the son of one of the _Zeyyadin_ so there would less of a chance for trouble—until Kiyan opened his mouth again.

“At least I’m a fun uncle,” he huffed, crossing his arms. “I could be sitting around doing nothing all day, moping all by myself in the courtyard—”

Avalie yanked her brother’s sleeve until his face was close to hers, her nostrils flaring. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” she hissed. “Have you even thought about how everyone is dealing with what just happened? Blue people flying those monsters again, the citadel pulling up chunks of the city? Did you really think they’d both be fine with that?” She narrowed her eyes as her brother yanked his arm away. “You were there with _maman_ the other day. You saw what happened.”

The entire neighborhood had heard it too. Avalie’s ankles had been feeling particularly swollen so Ramak had kindly offered to bring her mother breakfast in bed that morning. After they were able to stop the screaming, it had still taken them a good thirty minutes to convince her that Ramak was not Skathis come to kidnap her again.

Kiyan was silent, his own brows furrowed, but at least he didn’t seem inclined to argue with her anymore.

“What would you have done when I was taken, hmm?” That was something Avalie thought about every day. She’d been sixteen when Eril-Fane had killed the gods and knew without a doubt that if he hadn’t, she would have been next. She owed everything to the Godslayer.

“ _Maman_.” Safan gently tugged at the edge of her green tunic, and she nearly burst into tears. She hated arguing about what the gods had done in front of him, but her brother’s seeming disregard for their family’s trauma made her so mad that sometimes she wanted to scream too.

Kiyan had only been eleven when the Godslayer came back down from the sky. Though she sent up prayers every night, thankful that the two of them had never been taken, Avalie sometimes thought Kiyan’s youth prevented him from understanding the sheer magnitude of what it felt like to live each day in true fear as the gods walked above them. Her brother had lived more years without the gods than with them, and she often wondered if his recklessness with her son was because he had never lived with that fear to keep him in check.

They were an entire generation of kids who were old enough to know what was happening but just young enough that it didn’t happen to them. Those that were younger ran wild with the freedom that came with parents who soon learned to breathe easier. Those that were older, like Avalie, just felt guilty. It should have happened to her, but it didn’t, and she felt the accusatory stares of those taken wherever she went.

“ _Maman_ , we’ll be careful. I promise,” Safan repeated in a softer voice.

She pulled her son into a tight hug as Kiyan turned the doorknob. “Come on, little man,” he said to his nephew. “Let’s go.”

Safan stepped forward to follow his uncle, but ended up running smacking into his backside instead.

“Holy—!” Kiyan had stopped in his tracks, shock registering on his face at something outside.

“Language!” Avalie warned. She gave her son a dirty look before he could even think of imitating his uncle.

“I can’t believe it!” With an expression of awe on his face, Kiyan looked down at his nephew and pointed to a spot outside just off to the left of their building. “Safan, look! It’s the Godslayer!”

Avalie’s eyebrows shot up and she too jumped to the window, shoving her brother over for space.  Just outside their building stood their upstairs neighbor Azareen and her husband, Eril-Fane the Godslayer. The stairs to her apartment sat at the back of the building in the courtyard, and the three of them watched slack-jawed as Eril-Fane picked Azareen up in his arms and carried her around the building and out of sight.

From time to time, Avalie would see Azareen go back to her rooms at night when she was cleaning up the bakery kitchen after a long day of work, but the two never really talked past the occasional greeting. She’d only been thirteen when the married couple rented out the apartment above them. While there were only a few reasons as to why a couple still in their teens would marry, to a young Avalie, it was pure romance.

And then three years later, Eril-Fane reappeared, having killed the gods and saved them all. It was hard not to fall a little in love with the handsome warrior who had literally saved their world, and though the citadel still hung frozen above them, the people of Weep no longer had to worry about who was knocking at their door or whether the locks on their shutters might hold.

But despite Eril-Fane’s victory, he never came home with Azareen, and Avalie found it hard to approach the woman whose life had been so thoroughly upended by the gods when she herself had been lucky enough to avoid the same fate.

A few seconds later, they all heard the door to her apartment above slam shut, and Avalie and Kiyan gave each other embarrassed smiles.

“Well, we should go,” Kiyan said, perhaps a little too loudly. He grabbed the collar of Safan’s shirt, half-dragging the boy out the door, who now wanted nothing more than to stay home.

“But it’s the Godslayer!” He protested, pinwheeling his arms in an attempt to escape Kiyan’s deathlike grip.

“I think he’s busy,” Avalie said, trying not to laugh. “Maybe we can go up and welcome them home tomorrow, all right?”

She waved to the two of them and then shut the door. Savoring the silence once more, Avalie contemplated whether or not the _naan berenji_ she’d made could last another day or if she should take them out of the display case and use the rice cookies for dessert that night. Unfortunately, the silence didn’t last for long as a tinkling sound coming from the kitchen caught her ear.

Avalie frowned, and then—“The soup!” she gasped. She hurried as fast as she could back to the kitchen and grabbed a rag to lift the small pot of soup off the rack in the bread oven. The kitchen ran the length of two rooms at the back of their building, the bakery taking up the bottom floor of the first building and her family’s residence located on both floors of the connected building. Her father had always wanted to purchase the apartment above the bakery in the hope that one of his sons might want it for their future families. If her father were still alive, Avalie knew he would not be happy that Azareen was back. It was only her and her mother’s interference that kept him from approaching her after the Carnage.

She set the pot on a warmer on the counter and reset the lid, which had been dancing against the top when the liquid came to a boil. Normally she would have used the smaller fireplace in the corner, but it was getting harder to bend down these days, and anyway, the fire in the bread oven was still lit so why make things more difficult? Wiping her hands on the rag, she wanted nothing more than to sit down again and rest her back and feet, but there was one difficult task she she still had left to face.

Avalie stepped over to the backdoor, which had been propped open to let in the breeze, and slowly stuck her head outside. Her older brother had pulled a chair from the kitchen out into the courtyard behind their small building, and had been sitting in the sun for most of the day. She hadn’t minded as business was slow, but it also wasn’t the first time that week he’d done it, and she was beginning to worry.  

She tapped on the door to signal her presence before joining him outside. “ _Salam, dadash_ ,” she said gently. _Hello, brother._ There was a small fountain in the center of the courtyard, and she carefully sat down on the edge opposite him. The smell of plums hung faintly in the air, and she wondered vaguely if that would ever go away. Not even the restaurant behind her could mask the aroma of the fermented fruit.

Her brother sat with his eyes closed, face to the sun, looking for all the world like he was just enjoying the good weather. As if he could read her thoughts, he said to her in lieu of a greeting, “Do you think that smell will ever go away?” Before she could answer, he surprised her by saying, “I hope not. It’s the only proof we have left now.”

If some residents of Weep preferred not to think about their time with the gods, her brother was the opposite. While her family had all cried with relief upon his return home, he chafed at the confinement, seething with some unknown rage, convinced that something, something significant, had happened or was happening up in the citadel. Everyone returned with the memories of their time there wiped clean, erased so they couldn’t know what horrors were enacted around them or to them. The fact that he was the only person who returned without a name was, he said, just one more piece of evidence for his theory.

Their mother, her best friend Samira down the street, Samira’s mother before her, Eril-Fane, and Azareen. They’d all been taken, and none of them wanted to talk about it. They couldn’t remember what happened so why speculate on all the bad things that may or may not be true? It only made them feel worse. Avalie had hoped that her brother might put his anger to some use, possibly join Eril-Fane’s new group of Tizerkane warriors. But he never did. Eril-Fane wanted the citadel gone. Her brother didn’t.

In times like these, Avalie found the only thing she could do was change the subject. She stood up and moved to his side, placing her hand on his shoulder. “ _Maman_ should be up from her nap soon. I’ve got some soup warming if you want to bring her some.”

After another moment of silence, he took a deep breath and finally opened his eyes to look up at her. As a young girl, she’d always been so jealous of how blue his eyes were, as blue as the sky. According to her father, their great-grandmother had blue eyes, but she had to take his word for it since the woman had died before she was born. Safan had the same dark eyes as his father, but she secretly hoped that, despite the rarity of the color, her next child might inherit this trait too.

“All right,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go have some lunch.”

 

***

 

The _Astral_ hung above the red sea travelers called Arev Bael, the Devourer, a temporary but necessary mooring station for them in Var Elient until the crew could decide how to proceed on their first adventure. Most of the group was gathered together in one of the ship’s living areas, lounging around on the various couches and chairs that surrounded a low table covered in paperwork.

Thyon stood in the doorway, fighting the desire to leave before anyone noticed him. Lazlo was asking for everyone’s input on the decision of where to go. Kiska, Rook, and Werran would function as the ship’s navigators since they had the most experience in traveling through worlds, but the position was more or less in name only as Lazlo intended for everyone and their opinions to be treated with equal weight. Though Thyon had arrived in the middle of the discussion (experimenting with the idea of spending more time outside his lab), he gathered that the argument was split pretty evenly between starting with the most recent child sold versus traveling to the closest world first and working their way through the ledger based on distance.

Thyon was just about to leave, having decided for himself that this discussion could go on for some time, and he was not interested in hearing the same arguments repeated over and over again. Though some in the group were admittedly more spirited than the others, they were overall just too nice for any discussion to devolve into a true argument. For the first time, Thyon found himself missing the cacophonous din of academic debates back at his university.  

But his hesitation cost him, and Ruza spotted him before he could disappear completely back into the shadows of the corridor.

“Ah, the great alchemist lives!”

Thyon did everything he could to keep his breathing calm and steady. Once, the attention of others was a natural part of life. Once, he rejoiced in it. Now, after his discovery. . . Now, after what they all knew. . . Now, it seemed they looked at him with pity and curiosity, as if he were the experiment and not the scientist.

“We thought you might’ve disappeared on us,” Ruza continued.

“We had bets going,” Calixte confirmed from her spot. Lazlo and Sarai were sharing a chair meant for one person, and neither of them seemed to mind that Sarai was practically in his lap. Calixte, on the other hand, had dropped all pretense at modesty and spoke while draped across Tzara’s lap. “I said you fell through the mesarthium into another world and were having all sorts of grand adventures without us.”

“Actually,” Tzara corrected, “I believe you said you thought his laboratory ate him.”

Calixte shrugged. “Well, technically it would be the mesarthium that ate him.”

“Hey!” said Lazlo, crossing his arms. “My mesarthium would never eat anyone.”

“But no one really understands it, right?” Ruza cut in. “I mean, that’s why we have a scientist.”

Thyon raised his eyebrows. “And here I thought you valued my witty conversation.”

That garnered a few chuckles, which did much to set Thyon at ease. Ruza made space for Thyon on the couch, gesturing to the open spot between himself and Feral. He did not particularly want to be squished between two people but, as he looked around the room, he found that all of the other couches and chairs were full. Aside from the two couples, another couch held the three newest members of the group while Minya, Suheyla, and Sparrow sat adjacent to them. Sitting across from the open spot was Ruby, who waggled an eyebrow at him. In the end, Thyon chose the couch. He was not going to sit on Ruby’s lap.

Feral made enough room for Thyon that another person could have fit between them. Most likely, he and Ruby were on the outs again and, if the scowl on his face were anything to go by, he had seen Ruby making eyes at Thyon. Ruza, however, did not move over, and it took all of Thyon’s focus to concentrate on Lazlo’s renewed conversation as Ruza’s leg leaned warmly against his.

Lazlo reiterated the discussion for his benefit, ending with, “So what do you think, Thyon? Where do you think we should go?”

Thyon didn’t really have a preference for where they started as he honestly hadn’t given it much thought, and began to say so, when he realized that maybe they were asking him not just to include him in the debate but because he _should_ have given it some thought. Wasn’t he, after all, one of the children sold too?

The ledger belonging to Skathis lay before them on the table, open to the pages containing the lists of children the gods had sold. Surrounding it were piles of loose pages, translations of the lists the group had all been working on with help from their new navigators. Though everyone seemed hopeful at the idea of rescuing more potential siblings and friends, translating the lists was a depressing job when one considered just how many notations Skathis had included, just how many children he had sold over the years.

Dates, gender, gift, buyer, and even amount paid. It was all there, every last sale, every last child.

Thyon frowned. Every child but Lazlo. “Does that bother you?” he found himself asking, growing at the lists. “Not knowing what your real name is.”

Lazlo smiled, almost patronizingly, though Thyon knew the young man didn’t have a patronizing bone in his body. “My name has always been and will always be Lazlo Strange.” He shrugged. “I used to wonder what it was when I was younger, but. . .” He looked down at Sarai, who had been leaning against him, and smiled. “Any name given to me would’ve likely come from Skathis himself. I’d rather not be named by someone like him. And anyway, I can’t imagine being anyone other than myself.”

He grinned goofily at Thyon as if he knew how cheesy he sounded but was unapologetic about it all the same.

“Hey!” Calixte sat up in her own chair suddenly, disturbing Tzara with an accidental elbow to the stomach. “You were sold. There should be a listing for you, then, right? Your real name could be there!” She suddenly gasped. “It could list your gift!”

Immediately, a hush settled over the room, an abrupt collective intake of breath, as if they had all decided in unison to stop breathing, turning red from either lack of oxygen or, more likely, embarrassment. Calixte looked more perturbed than anything as everyone else suddenly found better places to look.

All of them, except Lazlo and Suheyla. As if they knew. As if they understood. As if Lazlo had already checked the lists.

 Lazlo looked at the piece of paper that lay on top of the pile and then back up at Thyon. His own eyes seemed to say, _It’s your call._

Thyon slowly bent down and picked up the paper Lazlo had indicated. At first, the words seemed to swim before his eyes, an ocean of information contained in that tiny drop of paperwork, and he wondered that his hands did not shake and betray him. His eyes roamed the page, scanning the list of names, but they all meant nothing to him. After a moment, he looked at the opposite side of the page, at the furthest column instead, the one labeled _Origin of Buyer_. There was only one entry on that page with Zosma as the location.

Thyon stared at the words. “Rani,” he murmured. That was him. His entire beginning, a single line in the ledger of a god.

“I wish we could save all of them,” Sparrow said then in a tiny voice, slumping back against her cushion. Her words seemed to awaken everyone from the silent spell that had been cast, and Thyon could have kissed her for the distraction had he been the type of person who kissed others for that kind of thing.

Suheyla smiled kindly at the girl and patted her knee. “We all do, my dear,” she said with a sigh. “But wishes don’t just come true. They’re only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bull’s-eye yourself.”

Sparrow looked up at the older woman with a furrowed brow, bringing another smile to Suheyla’s face. With a slight nod, she said, “Let the ship be our arrow, and each world a new bull’s-eye, hmm?”

Thyon took a deep breath, considering the older woman’s words while talk gradually resumed around him. Perhaps that was the nature of wishes. Perhaps the universe had not so much as granted his wish as provided him the opportunity to complete it himself. He had once told Lazlo that azoth was the key to unlocking the world’s mysteries, but maybe that was wrong. Maybe he had been the key the entire time. Maybe it wasn’t that the universe had granted or not granted his wishes, but had provided him with the hallway, and it was up to him to find which doors worked.

Or, in this case, arrows for the bull’s-eye.

After all, if he hadn’t been pushed by the duke to turn lead into gold, if he hadn’t had the sponsorship of the queen, if he hadn’t taken that book from Lazlo and all subsequent books after, he might have ended up somewhere else in life. And if he had been sold to another family, another world, by the head god Skathis, he quite literally might have ended up somewhere else.

It made him wonder how Lazlo Strange figured into all of this. Another variable, another hypothesis. Was Lazlo a locked door, forcing him back, making him rethink his methods, his ways of approaching the world? Or was he an open door through which Thyon had come to be familiar with Amezrou, through which he had been given any access to the city at all?

Perhaps both, he concluded, mentally shrugging. That was the nature of Lazlo Strange. He was, well, _strange_.

Who—or what—then did that make him?

“My song,” Suheyla murmured. She had been staring at the papers on the table since Thyon had picked up his list, and was tapping her knee thoughtfully. She looked up at Thyon then, and he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion  at the sudden appearance of tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Lazlo sat forward in his chair, the others slowly noticing her reaction to the paperwork.

Suheyla wiped at her eyes and smiled at Thyon, a genuine smile, the kind of which had not often been thrown his way, and it made his hearts contract in his chest.

“I thought that name sounded familiar. Rani,” Suheyla repeated. “It means _my song, my joy_. I can’t. . .” She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and Sarai, on her other side, placed her hand within the older woman’s in her lap. “I can’t forgive what the gods did to us, but having learned a few things—” she glanced quickly at Sarai—“I believe Korako didn’t—didn’t participate in. . . _things_ as much as we thought.” She looked at Thyon again. “I think she must have loved you very much to call you that.”

Everyone found somewhere else to look after that, even Calixte. And Thyon, feeling suddenly that his eyes could not move, could not even blink, stood up quickly. He made some vague excuse about leaving a burner on in his lab, and was halfway to it when he realized he was still holding the list from the ledger that had his name on it.

When he saw that he still clutched the paper in his hand, his quick stride slowed considerably. Turning blue had been one sort of proof, but that list? Written in the hand of the god himself? Not that he could explain away the blue skin otherwise, but there was no doubt now about his origin. Everything he knew about the family he had grown up with had been a lie. The Duke of Vaal was not his father, whoever his real father had been, and his real mother had not died at birth but in a violent coup against the gods.

What would life had been like if he had known his true parents? Surely the idea of loving parents was a foreign concept to him, let alone knowing a mother at all. He had grown up with an older brother, but as the heir of the duke’s estates, he spent the majority of his time there. And as far as Thyon knew, he was running them rather well. But it was Thyon whose name everyone knew, Thyon who was chosen as the queen’s godson, and Thyon to whom she had given the Chrysopoesium. To his knowledge, his brother did not resent the lack of attention paid to him, but only now did it occur to Thyon how odd it was for a younger son to receive so many more accolades than the elder. Growing up, knowing how smart and good-looking he was, it had all just seemed natural.

He was the second son who wouldn’t inherit, who had been told it was up to him to save the city of Zosma, but it was a burden and responsibility he took on because he prided himself on how well he worked the sciences. Even when he turned lead into gold, the youngest ever to do so at the age of sixteen, his father—the man he called father, he corrected himself—had merely nodded and said, “About time.”

About time. No congratulations from that quarter, only a wan smile on the queen’s face, despite the adulation and awe present in the eyes of everyone he passed on the streets. The Duke of Vaal had beaten him when it looked like Thyon wasn’t accomplishing what had been promised, and when he finally did, the only reaction had been, “About time.”

Even his given name—Thyon—was a name from a warrior, one honored with sainthood after driving barbarians out of Zosma. A name to influence, perhaps, his drive and ambition towards accomplishing what no other person in Zosma could do. It was a name of one who had freed their city, as they would have Thyon free them once again.

Lazlo hadn’t cared that he didn’t know his birth name. _I can’t imagine being anyone other than myself,_ he’d said.

Well, Thyon now had two names, and he still wasn’t sure who he was.

 

*

 

Thyon fairly dragged his feet the rest of the way down the corridor. He didn’t fancy going back and sitting with everyone again nor did he quite feel like sleeping as he knew that sleep would not be coming quick that night. Instead, as he usually found himself doing in times of great mental turmoil, he made for his lab.

He had left Zosma for Amezrou in order to get out from under the watchful eyes of both the duke and the queen and the stifling prison that the Chrysopoesium had become. Looking around his new lab, observing the mess he had created in the process of trying to clean, he realized that he had only traded one box for another. It shouldn’t have taken him that long to organize the room either, his mind perhaps keeping him otherwise occupied with the excuse of settling into his new home in order to avoid thinking of anything else.

What was it that he had once bragged to Lazlo, oh so long ago?

_Stories will be told about me, Strange. You should appreciate that. There ought to be adventure in them, don’t you think? It’s a dull legend that takes place in a laboratory._

He made a joke of his words before they left Amezrou, but Thyon really had wished to not just be _part_ of a story, but to _be_ the story. His wish had come true, not in the way he’d expected, but it had come true nonetheless. And there he was, hiding away again in a laboratory. Letting himself return to his old ways, his old habits. Hadn’t he crossed the Elmuthaleth, only one of the few travelers to do so in two hundred years? Hadn’t he, in his own way, helped them all discover the truth behind mesarthium?

He had done great things in his short life and was already on his way to becoming a legend. Some might argue that he already was one, the golden godson of Zosma. But he was no longer ‘of Zosma’ and his life wasn’t over yet. There was still so much he wanted to accomplish, so much he wanted to see, and given what he now knew of his origins, it was a very real possibility that he’d do both.

But not if he remained in his lab, experimenting with the same old materials, growing dull from self-imposed exile and lack of mental stimulation. What was a scientist but a scholarly explorer? And did they not have an innumerable amount of worlds to explore? There were any number of ways he could help them in their new adventures. Any number of new elements to discover.

An echo of a taunt rang through his mind, and he cringed in pain at the sheer amount of scorn present in his voice.

_In what version of the world could you help me?_

Well, this one, apparently, and Lazlo had done so again without any thought or good deed expected in return. Allowing him to join their ship. Offering him a way out in case he got cold feet. Letting him add his voice to the group discussion, weighing his opinion equally, one god’s son to another.

As the resident scholar and scientist on board the _Astral_ , it somewhat belatedly occurred to Thyon that everything he wanted to accomplish would help the others as well.  

But only if he helped himself first. It was a poor scientist who refused to acknowledge the incontrovertible results set before him—and a poorer one still who didn’t make use of the new data to further his studies and broaden his horizons.

The world of science was full of questions, and Thyon felt like he had spent his entire life asking the wrong ones. It was time now to start asking the right ones.

 

***

 

When they first started making preparations for their new journey, it had taken more than a few trips to bring in the items Thyon deemed necessary from the temporary lab he’d set up in the attic of the crematorium across town. Even now, he still hadn’t finished unpacking most of the boxes and trunks. Crucibles, flasks, mortars and pestles: they all littered the smooth counter-tops Lazlo had created for him in the brand new alchemical laboratory aboard the _Astral_. Thyon had spent most of his time over the past few days planning out where to place the various larger pieces of equipment, and the current disarray left him itching to get back to work.

Among the small pieces he’d already set out, one of the first items he had put in its place was a small mirror he had made soon after swearing in as an initiate into the College of Alchemy. It was a simple enough procedure: one had only to apply the right blend of mercury and silver to one side of a smooth piece of glass. Once the mixture settled and dried, the glass became reflective. It had been some time since he had looked into that mirror. Soon after making it, he would glance at it every day before leaving his room, but keeping it around now had become habit more than anything else. He certainly wasn’t one for keeping things out of nostalgia, but it was one of the first pieces of proof that his confidence, his belief in his abilities, had not been misplaced. A mirror was something all initiates could do. If he could make one of those, then it followed that he could only go up from there.

 _“You can’t keep drawing your own spirit,”_ Lazlo’s voice echoed in his mind. _“It might not kill you. But it will make you ugly.”_

Thyon shook his head and rolled his eyes. He had checked the mirror right after Lazlo had left, though of course he hadn’t told the librarian that, and suddenly the time had come to use the mirror once more.

Standing at an angle to the small oval, Thyon could not yet see his face reflected within but he knew what he would find. After a few days of heavy lifting, rescuing books from the city’s lost library and packing up his own equipment, his body’s spirit would have replenished itself. His golden hair was more or less in place, and his skin, free from the windowless confines of the attic, began to soak up the sun once more. While he was fairly convinced he no longer looked the haggard ghost of a week ago, he wasn’t sure he looked like himself that much either. Certainly he could no longer lay claim to judgmental cheeks, not after throwing himself head first into the dusty pit of library books along with everyone else, or even a face like a linen napkin. Thyon still wasn’t sure what that was supposed to have meant or if it had even been a compliment. But regardless of his healing spirit and time outdoors, Thyon didn’t need the mirror to tell him he no longer resembled the golden godson who had left Zosma all that time ago.

He did, however, need the mirror to show him what he looked like as a god’s son.

Thyon slowly pulled his gloves off, one by one, and left them folded on the tabletop nearby. He placed himself, feet shoulder-width apart, in front of the mirror which was of an exact height to his face. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of the mirror, first the left and then the right. To any outsider, it would look as if Thyon were attempting to manipulate the mesarthium itself, pushing the wall until it shuddered or broke. But Thyon was not bracing himself against any movement caused by the metal but from the impact of what he was about to face before him.

As much as he wanted to remove his hands from the metal walls, the thought that he had never quit mid-experiment before propelled him forward, even if this was the first time he himself had been the experiment. Thyon looked down at the ground and took in several deep breaths, inhaling loudly through his nose and exhaling out through his mouth. It was supposed to help calm him down, to relieve the erratic beating of his hearts, but it did not. Eventually, Thyon had to just shake his head. Lazlo turned blue and now he walked around the ship like that all the time. If Lazlo could do it, certainly _he_ could handle it for just a few minutes.

That thought, more than anything, kept him centered, and he kicked off his shoes and toed off his socks. There was a slight grayish tinge to his bare feet, and he kept them firmly on the floor. (His mind, in its half-distracted state, came up with another potential experiment: how much did the quantity of mesarthium to skin ratio affect the rate at which one turned blue?)

Thyon inhaled one more time, flooding his lungs with air and his heart with courage, and he raised his head to meet his reflection head-on. Looking himself straight in the eye, he held his breath until his cheeks turned blue.

And then his nose turned blue. And then his chin. And then the rest of his face until he was completely blue, until his hands nearly matched the wall they were braced against, until every exposed inch of his body was blue.

“Huh.”

There was another use for the word “huh,” though it was not employed as often as the others. In those rare times when a person is confronted with a fact that is both unchangeable and undeniable, and the only way to face that fact is to plow forward and move on, “huh” was a sound that expressed resignation, reluctance, and acceptance, the only syllable possibly worth using that could simultaneously convey all that those feelings encompassed.

Thyon stared at himself in the mirror, eyes drinking in every detail of the blue face in the reflection. A small part of him expected to feel differently once the transformation was complete, but physically he still felt the same. It shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise, though, since he hadn’t even noticed the change the first time around until he happened to look down. But perhaps some sort of physical feeling might have been nice, almost necessary, in order to confirm the change in his mind.

Lazlo had given the other children medallions of mesarthium so that an incident like the one in the amphitheater would never happen again. He had not, however, given one to Thyon. Perhaps that orphan librarian knew him better than he did himself. Did he want one? He was not sure. It didn’t mean, of course, that he had go around with blue skin all the time. None of them _had_ to, but they certainly all preferred it. Thyon had grown up with so much of his life laid out before him that the option of choice had not often presented itself to him. He was told to turn lead into gold and so he did. He was told he had to save Zosma and so he tried. Choosing now, between this option or that, pale skin versus blue, was almost too much to consider.

But that choice could wait just a little longer. One of the main reasons the others stayed blue was to utilize the abilities which resulted from contact with the mesarthium. If, Thyon reasoned, his own supposed abilities were useful enough, then perhaps blue skin was a worthwhile side effect.

He glanced over at the sheet of paper, which he had set down on the nearby counter-top. He couldn’t even remember reading the rest of his entry, so focused was he earlier on just holding the living proof of his true origin.

Ruby’s comment made outside the laboratory door not too long ago had set him wondering about the idea of magic, transference of abilities through metal, and whether or not one’s power was due to the inherent makeup of the person or if it were a highly specified reaction to the metal on skin.

Regardless of how they came to be—and Thyon planned to look into that—he too now, as the son of a goddess, could do something. Something great, something wonderful, possibly something worthy of a story.

Thyon picked up the sheet of paper again, and his eyes trailed down the page until he once again found his entry.

His eyes seemed to glaze over, his mind going blank. After awhile, a sound bubbled up out of his throat, a sort of choking sound that gurgled and fizzled until he clapped a hand over his mouth. It didn’t matter how many times he read back over the list, the words remained the same. It explained so much: why the duke had bought him, why he had been ever so cleverly nudged towards alchemy, and why the queen had demanded so much from him. But, as anyone aboard the _Astral_ knew, one had to be touching mesarthium for one’s powers to work. And while Thyon’s nickname was the “golden godson,” he was no more a golden child than he had been a blue one.

Had Kora known when he was brought to the duke? Did it enrage the man who thought he had gotten away with a bargain? Did the queen throw a fit when she realized her godson was not so magical after all?

Four little words whose meaning had changed his entire life. Thyon looked down and realized he was standing in the middle of his lab, gloveless and barefoot—completely against all rules of laboratory safety—and the noise once again escaped from his lips.

Thyon was laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed, if he had ever truly laughed at all. But if any situation was so ridiculous as to merit laughter, it was this: 

 

  * __Turns items to gold__



 

And here he had gone about it the hard way, spending countless nights in the Chrysopoesium, becoming acquainted with endless whippings at his father’s hand, using up liters of his own spirit in the creation of azoth when he had the power within him the whole time. Which he never would have discovered if it hadn’t been for Lazlo Strange.

And what did that make Lazlo to him, now that they were both children of gods? Genetically, not so different from where they stood now, despite their shared blue skin and special abilities. Lazlo was the son of Skathis, and he was the son of Kora; parents, at least, were one thing they did not share. Another sound bubbled out and over his lips as a deranged thought flew through his mind. What if, after all of this, they had been brothers?

Thyon collapsed to the floor and laughed until he cried, and then cried until he laughed, until he wasn’t sure what he was doing, except that he had to do something, and howling in merriment was as good as howling in sorrow and so why not do both?

Eventually, Thyon’s emotions subsided, and he found himself half-sitting, half-laying against the wall, his legs splayed out before him. It was a decidedly un-Thyon-like position, and he found he didn’t care. He thought to himself that he didn’t even think he’d care if someone walked in on him in that moment and saw him like that—though he also didn’t think he’d care to test that particular theory either.

Thyon placed his hand upon his chest and felt the rapid beats of his hearts. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed that hard. One didn’t laugh at university with one’s fellow initiates when there were important discoveries to be made. And he certainly hadn’t cried quite so hard when his father whipped him. Or even when he’d stolen the small knife from the kitchen and slid it across his arms in small little strokes. Of course, the point of that was to feel something, anything, and know he could control how long, how deep the slice as he could not seem to control anything else in his life.

Thyon steadied his breathing and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to both elbows. The markings from both blade and syringe stood out as pale blue scar tissue in contrast to the darker blue of his arms, and he let his fingers trail lightly over the raised discolorations. He still could not seem to gain control over anything in his life, as this new discovery proved to him, but hurting himself had done absolutely nothing to help. This new adventure they were on would be one out of control escapade after another. What else could he do but. . . go along for the ride? Take stock, filter out the abstract versus the real, the unknown quantities versus the known, and learn to accept assistance. This was not the kingdom of Zosma, and it was not solely up to him to save them just as this was not his ship and not just his adventure. It was everyone’s journey, and he was a part of it.

Thyon spent a long time sitting on the floor of his lab, resting his back against the wall, and he watched as the glavelights hanging at various intervals cast strange and beautiful shadows across his blue skin.

 

***

 

Sometime later, after they had departed Amezrou for good, after they set their course for the first world, the first child to find, Thyon ran into Sarai in one of the ship’s many hallways. It was late and dark, most of the glavelights having been dimmed for the evening, and she was without Lazlo for once, so perhaps it was these factors that caused Thyon to stop her as she walked past.

He had spent most of the day in his lab again, though he was trying to stick to more of a schedule that would allow for times elsewhere aboard the ship. He told himself that it was mostly for the exercise; now that he had all the time in all the worlds, he didn’t need to push himself so hard in his work. And anyway, some of the kids were interested in his experiments and volunteered the use of their own spirit just to see what it would do. It was also a rather different but not unpleasant sensation to find others actually smiling upon his entrance into a room. It made him almost look forward to the time spent away from his lab, and the result, the feelings he felt inside, were ones upon which he was willing to tolerate further study.

When he was attempting experiments within the lab, he had allowed himself to turn blue a few more times, though he had yet to venture outside his lab in that manner. It was a new feeling, knowing that for the first time in a very long time, he now had complete control over himself and what he chose to do. It was certainly a heady sensation, and it rather overwhelmed him at times, but as with many things in life, the more one practiced, the more one became used to such things.

And given that there existed any number of worlds for them to visit, so it followed that there too was the probability of a world existing in which Thyon remained blue. Thyon himself would argue against the possibility of such thing, but the probability did exist.

He was finally beginning to understand what it meant to become something new. When it came down to it, a name was just a word. It might be a word with a certain emotional weight attached to it or it might just be a word. In the end, it was up to the owner of the name to choose who they were and who they wanted to be. It was up to them to decide how to feel when others called their name. It was up to them to decide _how_ others called their name. Names only have power if you let them have power over you.

He would no longer be Thyon Nero, golden godson of Zosma, nor did he want to be, and he had only just begun to get to know Rani. In the end, he simply settled for “Thyon.” For the first time in a very long time, a little bit was just enough for him.

But sometimes knowing only a little bit could be overwhelming when one considered how much of a lot one didn’t know.

“Um. When you were in her dream,” he started, Sarai staring up at him curiously. It was already going badly. Thyon has never started a sentence with “Um” in his life. “When you went into Nova’s dreams and she—Wraith joined you. When you spoke with her. . .”

His hearts pounded in time within his chest, his breath labored, and he found he could not bring himself to say her name aloud. He felt ashamed suddenly, ashamed at a great many things and regret at quite a few, but nothing so much as he felt in that moment for a woman who had risked her life for them. Perhaps she had given him up but perhaps she had had no choice in the matter. But it was the choice she did have, the choice she did make, that brought Lazlo to Zosma and, perhaps, to him. Her choice, her risk, allowed her to save not only himself and Lazlo, but had also done it all to give them the chance they were able to take to save their lives today, and the lives of the other children on the lists. He himself had saved the others back in the amphitheater, that was true, but that was more by chance than anything else. The feeling of helping someone, of saving someone, for no other reason than that they needed it was still a new feeling that deserved further examination. But it would never measure up to what she—Kora— _his mother_ —had done.

His own choices had somehow led him back to Amezrou, thereby allowing him to discover the truth of his birth. But that would not have happened if she had not taken a chance in the first place. Perhaps he owed it to her to give her a chance in return. Perhaps he owed it to both of them, to not just be a story but to _make_ one.

_My song._

As a scientist, Thyon was always curious. As a scientist, one would often attempt experiments in the hopes of satisfying, one way or another, their curiosity about the world. As a person, however, sometimes one didn’t have the patience for experiments or hypotheses or research. As a person, or a even god, or a faranji, or a warrior, or—yes, sometimes even a scientist—sometimes one just needed to _know_.

To take that first step into the next world, the next life.

_My joy._

Thyon made himself look up, made himself meet Sarai’s calm gaze, and say the words most burning in his mind.

“Tell me about her. What was she like?”

 

_I would have chosen you. If they had let me choose._

 

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The italicized quotes in Kora's memories about her lover are lines from Std and MoN. 
> 
> 2\. The lullaby Kora sings baby Lazlo is actually a Swedish lullaby I found on a website I've since lost the address to. If the translation is wrong, please let me know!
> 
> 3\. Speaking of languages, the names and words in the section featuring Avalie and Kora's lover are Persian/Farsi in origin. I do not speak Farsi nor can I read the language so I took the words I needed from one of the handful of English-Farsi (spelled phonetically with the English alphabet) websites I could find. Most words are translated in the text itself, but the word "dayi" is Farsi for "uncle." I am not sure how it is formatted grammatically within a Farsi sentence, and I chose "Kiyan-dayi" over "Dayi Kiyan" mainly because it just looked better. If you speak Farsi, please correct me if that or any of the other words are wrong!


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